‘You were his daughter. 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. Her faith in human beings revived. One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms.
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