For aught I know, they may be in the neighbourhood at this moment. “I don’t know, John. "Then I am old-fashioned. Will you unlock that door?” “Never!” he said. 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.
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