” “Don’t tempt me,” she said, laughing, and drawing her opera-cloak together. 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. She could not part with dignity. And her mother, looking unusually alert and hectic, wore cream and brown also, made up in a more complicated manner. She could see that she was now the exclusive object of the boy’s attention.
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