He shrugged and, to Gerald’s relief, made to leave at last. 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. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. He reached for her chin and lifted it up.
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