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. The door was opened for her by a weary-looking youth in a striped jacket several sizes too large for him. “I can’t believe it. Black blood and white bone flew into the corners of the crypt, slathering the dead faces of the corpses left piled in the corner.
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