On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. One from 1966, a yearbook photo reprinted in a newspaper. 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. "What do you want fot that coat, friend?" asked Jack, as he came up. " And he proceeded to unfold his scheme to the woollen-draper.
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