There was no need of sowing suspicion when he wasn't really certain there were grounds for it. "Hear me, Jack!" shrieked his mother. Practically all. 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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