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. "Thames!—Thames!" cried Winifred, rushing to the window. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. They were just nice.
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