You have been to me like a mother, not only a wetnurse. 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 lied. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other.
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