” Anna looked at her sister gravely. 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. I am five-and-thirty, and I have knocked about in the world and tasted the quality of life. Blood dripped down one side of her forehead. Anna turned round with a start, which was almost of guilt, the poker still in her hand.
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