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. What a fool I was to separate the two in my mind. A sophisticated woman would have translated the tone as a caress. Everything in his favour—the luck of the gods! The only white men were miles down the coast.
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