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. But it was the form of her ruling determination; it was the only form that she ever allowed to see daylight. ‘Don’t concern yourself, Hilary. She fought him with tooth and nail.
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