‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. She had slapped him away with her free hand and the finger was released suddenly, sending her careening to the floor. 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. ‘No need to upset yourself. “And yet I do it without compunction. He turned round toward her and found her looking at him and standing very still.
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