"Look at these fetters," returned Thames, holding up his manacled wrists; "they were put on by my uncle's command. 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. Perhaps it was just as well there was no inherited memory.
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