“You can’t imagine,” he said, “what a beastly thing a furtive love affair can be. She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners. You have not forgotten——” “I have forgotten nothing?” he answered, enigmatically. A pair of long-lashed blue eyes studied them both as she slowly brought her hands down to rest by her sides. 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. ” His voice assumed an easy detached tone.
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