So I undertook to protect her by keeping love out of her life, by crushing it whenever it appeared, obliterating it. 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. A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient.
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