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. "Mur—der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill.
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