There was no response. " "Whom do you mean?" demanded Jackson. Anna’s face was half turned from him, but her expression, and the tone of her monosyllable puzzled him. He urged his conductors to a quicker pace to get out of sight of the distressing spectacle, and even felt relieved when he was shut out from it and the execrations of the mob by the walls of the little prison. They both listened intently. ‘Poor things. 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. . If I can’t talk anywhere else—I DO want an understanding.
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