He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. "Ever play one of these machines?" "Yes. 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. I know something about men.
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