” “Think not,” that young man remarked laconically. Impressed with this idea, he paused for a moment to listen. There was a stain of wine upon her dress. 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. Hastening along the passage he came to the sixth door.
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