She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones. 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. ‘It is nothing at all of the kind. The massive door was unlocked, and they entered the cell. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. Through a blur of tears Ruth followed the rocking light until it vanished. "Why came she here?" "She could not resist the hand of fate which drew her hither," replied Sir Cecil, mournfully. Their heads touched again, their arms tightened.
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