She remained for some seconds crouching at the fender, poker in hand. Miss Mary to the life, I said, and so she is. Let us search it. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. Detention was merry for the other detainees. “Dear husband,” she murmured. 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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