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. I can now give myself to God utterly; no human emotion will ever be shuttling in between. But here was new music, tender and kindly and whimsical, that first roved to and fro in the mind and then cuddled up in the heart. An enormous poster almost covered one side of the wall—the poster. She took the tray with both hands, gulped, and gave way to tears. "Then I'll have it before to-morrow morning," said the keeper of the New Prison, to himself.
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