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. It added to the picturesqueness of the Sha-mien night to observe these gaily coloured lanterns dancing hither and yon like June fireflies in a meadow. It’s best. She wondered what the problem was, why the buildup? She wanted to go to his apartment that evening but stayed herself. Something as yet unformulated within her kept her estranged from all these practical aspects of her beliefs. The doctor would naturally offer a hundred objections; he might seriously interfere; so he must be forestalled. “I—I didn’t love the man I was engaged to,” she said.
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