This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it. Below was an uninspiring street, a thoroughfare of boarding-houses and apartments. 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. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica.
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