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. ‘Might have forgiven him,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘if he hadn’t taken the babe. They don’t now. She reminded him of his linnet, when he gave the bird the freedom of the house: it became filled with a wild gaiety which bordered on madness. She moaned as his hands explored her body, fingers crushing against her panties under her skirt.
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