She asked the inevitable question, the one she knew Michelle was waiting to field like a quarterback anticipating the pass. She too at once developed an anxious interest in the street outside. The Ragged Edge. Voices floated down, but there was no sound of pursuit. 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.
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