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. She had never expected John capable of saying such things, of thinking such macabre ideas. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. PELLISSIER.
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