Her nerves were shattered, her senses dazed by this unexpected shock. 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. So let me assure you now that we are not accusing you of a crime. “Well?” she said. "England or France, London or Paris, it's all one to me, so I've you to command me.
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