’ Lucilla eyed him with one of those particularly feminine looks it was difficult for a mere male to interpret. 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. His mind was busy with a résumé of yesterday's unusual events. ‘You were right, miss.
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