His stories had enchanted her, even if in some deep corner of her heart she guessed they were not entirely true. 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 have not told me yet,” Annabel said, “how it is that you have dared to personate me. “All day.
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