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. Go to her, I say, and take her in your arms, you poor benighted Ironsides! I can't make you see. Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother.
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