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Was he your natural father? Did you know him?” “No, I didn’t. His employer retreated into the further apartment, leaving the door ajar. I was among the common herd in the place below, but I took good care to see you. 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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