There was a concerted gasp of shock from both the black-garbed lad and the coachman. Laughed at me, then. 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. “Is your husband here to-night?” he asked. .
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