He saw the girl, and sprang up in bed. 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. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered.
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