“It’s magnificent!” He leaned back and regarded her with his head a little on one side. Jack was not half your age when he died. As he entered the shop, a tall portly personage advanced to meet him, whom he at once recognised as the present proprietor. Her canines had receded, but were still 166 prominent. 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.
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