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 had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. Well, I was all for dragging in Bow Street there and then, and getting the pair of those fraudsters thrown in gaol. "What does Mr. Cheveney walked away with a shrug of the shoulders. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Men in this part of the world drink to forget the things they have lost.
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