" "Mr. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. Diane spooned warm apple-rhubarb pie onto the girl’s plates, topping each with scoops of ice cream. 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. A brief calm succeeded. ‘His granddaughter?’ ‘Yes, his son’s daughter. Though not much passed the middle term of life, he seemed prematurely stricken with old age. She refrained.
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