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. Restraining with an effort his intense curiosity, he talked of general subjects only, trying his best to entertain her. Placing a piece of money in Morgan's hands, he hurried out of the churchyard. She pulled the trigger. Her words, as she said them, seemed to her to mean nothing, and there was so much that struggled for expression. ‘You’re the most troublesome wretch I’ve ever encountered,’ he told her bitterly. ‘Wait! At least tell me where I can find you. But the stone was slippery; and the tide, which here began to feel the influence of the fall, was running with frightful velocity.
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