" "We may believe as much of that as we please, I suppose," observed the carpenter's wife, with a sneer. 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. E. ” “Not exactly,” he answered nervously. It was a bizarre sight, a miniature manor, replicated fully, walled in gray limestone. “I do not suppose he will be home till late.
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