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. There was a long silence between them. He never asked questions; he never addressed his companions; and frequently he took off his cap and wiped his forehead. She could hear the bell tinkle as the horse shook its head. It’s a tremendous blow, of course—but it doesn’t kill me.
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