Piano wire, stained with black rust from the horrible deeds she had committed. She flung aside every plan she had in life, every discretion. ‘Cousin? But I am a fool. 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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