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She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. 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. You see, the plain fact of the case is that I think I am too young and ignorant for marriage. ’ She was backing across the room, moving towards the screen.
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