. ” She said through a closed mouth. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. It was empty. You did not say a word about it last week, nor have you written. "What does he say?" roared the long drover. His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot. She paused for a moment. 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. "Oho!" he said.
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