“Won’t you give me your address?” She shook her head. He drew a chair to the side of the bed and sat down, terrified by the utter fallowness of his mind. As he looked up at the massive tower, the clock tolled forth the hour of midnight. It was the beginning and the end of the transaction. 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. " "Have it, and welcome," rejoined Figg.
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