She was sore with the perplexities of her preposterous position. 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. And by monsieur le baron, of a disposition entirely unforgiving, I do not desire to be recognised in the least.
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