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. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. As it was, my oldest and trustiest setter, Abraham Mendez, received a blow on the head from one of the lads that will deprive me of his services for a week to come,—if, indeed it does not disable him altogether. She was bathed in turbid water that had already been used. He appeared to be strangely uncommunicative, though I tried to draw him out.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 26-09-2024 23:57:53