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. He looked at it with uplifted eyebrows, but made no remark. He bullied frankly. “Our business here is the right way. Tell me why you ran away from the convent.
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