"Hist!" exclaimed Jack. “Not much,” he answered, “and yet about all there is to be known, I fancy. 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. You were dying and your baby along with you. " "Are you ready?" said Trenchard, striding towards the door. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. .
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