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 could talk to her as frankly as he could to a man, that she would not take offence at anything so long as it was in the form of explanation. "I had no hand in the affair," replied Jackson, bluntly; "but I know those who had; and could bring forward evidence, if you require it. He's more like a lord than—" As she spoke, steps were heard approaching; the door was thrown open, and a young man marched boldly into the room. The washerwoman reported that she had seen a man one day riding out for an early morning hunt, but was unsure of his identity. "I likes to hear vot you says. “Of course I will,” he answered. "I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair. If there is, it’s a mere wrapping—there’s better underneath. ” Sheila snarled.
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