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. “What can one say?” she exclaimed. She hoped the lights would become hot enough to melt her into the floor. . He returned her impressive greeting almost mechanically. Through all this flutter of novelty there came and went a solicitous, preoccupied, almost depressed figure.
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