It was a sort of cooking-room, with an immense fire-place flanked by a couple of cauldrons, and was called Jack Ketch's Kitchen, because the quarters of persons executed for treason were there boiled by the hangman in oil, pitch, and tar, before they were affixed on the city gates, or on London Bridge. “Was he really?” She asked, waiting on baited breath. Shotbolt nodded in token of acquiescence, and emitted an odd guttural sound. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. She rolled to one side. She listened with growing apprehension to the tale that Gerald told, omitting any mention of pistols and daggers, and at the end delivered herself of various expletives highly unsuited to a lady of her advanced years. ” The young man obeyed the summons.
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