Not one of them but bore the marks of having been engaged in a recent and severe conflict. More strange stories were told of it than of any other house in London. Casting a hasty glance, as he was about to turn an angle of the wall, at the great gates and upper windows of the prison, and perceiving no symptoms of pursuit, Jack proceeded towards the hovel at a very deliberate pace, carefully assisting his female companion over every obstacle in the road, and bearing her in his arms when, as was more than once the case, she sank from fright and exhaustion. Then he entered her passionately, riding her with exquisite precision. Here was a hole as wide as a church-door. She unlaced his pants and slid them down his hips, examining him as he stood before her naked. 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. I’ve just seen him.
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