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. Like the nuns, she hardly ever looked in a mirror. He looked at her for a moment in a puzzled sort of way. Then he lifted the black cloak-like garment from the floor. “Heaven knows!” said Mr. ’ ‘Well for him,’ remarked Captain Roding.
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