But when all was over, a sorrowful calm succeeded, and, if not free from grief, she was tranquil. I’ve never found them hostile. 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. Things hung for a moment in an awkward silence.
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