Remain at the door, Nab," he added, loitering for a moment behind the others, "and let no one in, or out. 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. ‘Anyhow, never mind that now. The boiling under her stern, however, told him nothing. Lucy ate without passion. The ladder was now within reach.
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