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’ll end there one day, mark my words. He often wanted only to drive with her in the car, both of them staring at the scenery in silence for hours. He brought his mother to call, and as you know the Countess goes scarcely anywhere.
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