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. At least, he would always be able to take care of Ruth. She snapped out of her blissful state and looked at him squarely in the eyes. Then he looked towards his granddaughter once more, who had flounced away to the window at her greataunt’s interruption. We're lost.
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