It was a great weight from her shoulders to confide in another human being, and she suspected he did truly believe her. She meant to go, she meant to go, she meant to go. 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. Much more temperate; the discreet and joyless love of a virtuous, reluctant, condescending wife.
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