“Why, what is the matter with you? What do you mean?” Annabel laughed scornfully. Pretty good stuff, some of it. 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. My foster mom works there as a second job.
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