She caught her finger in the lock and had to ask him to help pry it out. 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. But from the rest—you saved me. She lay still for a long time, and her mind resumed at a more tolerable pace.
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