“No, no,” she cried. 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. I have been used to living in apartments in Paris, but I suppose the system is different here. That, Sir, is what I call being a Good Samaritan. Och! many a mug o' bubb have I drained wi' the landlord, Joe Hind. ’ I said.
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