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. If there were any pearls, none came into the light. He would refuse to listen and absolve her unshriven. And when she went to sleep, then always Capes became the novel and wonderful guest of her dreams. She looked at him mournfully.
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