“Never. . Her cheeks flushed a dull red. "His wife is still living," returned Kneebone, drily. ’ ‘Oh yes, yes. ” She was silent, and in the gloom of the dimly lit apartment he could not see her face. ‘The old man who lives here, idiot. Then the lady smiled and her radiance, even in the darkness, warmed Gerald unexpectedly. 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. There is the key.
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