’ Mrs Sindlesham shook with laughter. 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. Shrinking involuntarily back into the farthest corner of the seat, Jack buried his face in his hands. "Where is he?" asked she, in an agitated whisper. Almost worthy of your own fertile imagination. And it is not at all his affair. Her shoulders were gripped hard and a familiar voice spoke. ‘It is of no use to try to stop me. CHAPTER X.
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