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’ A scowl crossed the lady’s face. She tugged at my coat and said, ‘I know of the blue-eyed maid. We’ll have some buttered toast. 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. It had been discussed in silence.
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