“My chief,” he said, “took it into his head to have an impromptu dinner party. “Muck-headed moral ass! I ought to have done anything. I struck him across the face, jumped out and went back by train to Paris. 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.
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