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“Who tied this scarf here?” he asked, looking up. " "Conduct me to your dwelling, Sir, without further delay," said Trenchard, sternly,—"to the boy. 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. Joe, my foster dad, was a heroin and booze addict.
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