Oh! my dear, dear son, be warned in time. A sophisticated woman would have translated the tone as a caress. Shotbolt nodded in token of acquiescence, and emitted an odd guttural sound. 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.
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