The sky was cloudless, effulgent blue. 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. What has become of the other?" "Why, surely you don't mean Jack Sheppard?" cried the woollen-draper in surprise.
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