\" She was never hungry for human food. A woman touched him lightly on the arm, and smiled into his face. 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. Then suddenly her spirit rose in revolt. It was his heart. He displayed a quite unprofessional vein of mysticism in the matter.
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