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. He thought he heard a scraping sound as he turned the handle. He tried to raise an outcry, but his throat was again forcibly griped by Rowland. “I have heard of you, of course,” Anna answered hesitatingly, “but——” “You cannot imagine what I have come to see you about. I do not even know his name. ” That phrase about dragging the truth through swamps of nonsense she remembered from Capes.
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