"I heard his voice; but I saw them on the stairs, and durst not approach him, for fear of giving the alarm. She felt her own body stir, ready for more. . After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. A moment before he had been a strong man, she had been in his power, a poor helpless thing. A minute pressure inwards showed him that it was not locked. 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.
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