‘It must be painful. Wood laughed louder than ever. 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. She did not remember him, but he said that he had introduced himself to her when she was visiting the butcher's family. At the Palazzo she had been confined to her own sunny windowed quarters most of the time, but she had the entire run of the inside of the manor. But he looked back into the hall and spoke to the sergeant who could just be seen behind him.
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