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. Courtlaw sat with folded arms. "Will he live?" asked Ruth. I do not care in the least. The hotel manager was expostulating and Ah Cum was replying by a series of expressive shrugs.
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