She wedged the towel between her legs. “I’ll buy a new one. 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. How she had coveted her mother’s beauty and sought to emulate it, if only to please her. Mr. Even now she was dazed.
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