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The militiaman at once thrust the old man between the shoulder blades, pushing him into the kitchen. You must live for me. " "Here you have it, my dear," returned the hawker. 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. We're to be given a treat to-night.
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