You see, I have had to look after myself so long that I have developed a terrible bump of independence. 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. All the fury had left her, swamped by an inexplicable flood of warmth. ‘Major, sir!’ The major appeared so swiftly that Melusine was instantly suspicious.
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