“And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly. “She has never 96 once contacted me. A wife formed part of his scheme of life, for several years he had been secretly but assiduously looking for her. 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. "What did you do?" he asked, in a broken voice. The woman I wanted was another man's wife. His title has descended to Rowland: his estates to Aliva. Clearing the few impediments in his way, he soon reached the condemned pew, where it had once been his fate to sit; and extending himself on the seat endeavoured to snatch a moment's repose.
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