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. A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth. "Fear nothing, Sir," said the man, in a voice which Thames instantly recognised as that of Blueskin.
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