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. His hot juices coursed into her in quick bursts. A thing which had mystified her since childhood, a smouldering wonder why it should be, and until now she had never felt the urge to investigate.
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