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. Gerald lost his head. He filled the rôle of comrade which Spurlock dared not enact, at least not utterly as he would have liked. The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. Gray and tranquil world! Amazing, passionless world! A world in which days without meaning, days in which “we don’t want things to happen” followed days without meaning—until the last thing happened, the ultimate, unavoidable, coarse, “disagreeable. And do you, Jack, attend to your work, and mind you don't get into further mischief.
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