A sacrifice. He hadn't played fair. 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. Wood, in deploring his wild career, adverted to the melancholy condition to which it had reduced his mother. He was speechless. The area was sparsely populated. “Stop this—this humbugging,” he explained. As a matter of fact it isn’t their affair. ’ Speeding down the two flights of stairs, Gerald mentally thanked God that it was the practice of himself and Roding—in case of emergency, of which this was a prime example—to stable their horses at the posting inns all the way to London.
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