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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. You need fear no interruption from him, or any of his myrmidons. White leaned forward in her chair with an anxious smile designed to throw oil upon the troubled waters. But did Gerald trouble himself about her? No.
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