Somebody tricked you back yonder—baited you for spite. "Is she dead?" "No—no," answered Hogarth. 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. This is part of a dream— some evil fancy.
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