No mother would have sent her daughter into the world with such a wardrobe. (“No, no. She seemed to think he was merely the paymaster, handing over the means of her freedom. I spent my fair share of time in the closet. 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. The trip took a full day. She had felt deserving of the punishment, as he had been mainly concerned that she would be killed by accidentally falling into the pit, but it was a terrible insult.
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