The entrance was barred against them; and they had the additional mortification of hearing Sheppard's loud laughter at their discomfiture. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. 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. The funeral, it has just been said, took place on that day. "Thank you; but I've a pocket full of water-chestnuts. “But Julian, we don’t even know each other!” She exclaimed.
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