She walked with long swinging steps, scorning the thought of buses or the tube. 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. That's one of the troubles with young folks: they take themselves so seriously.
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