“MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison. Her sleepless night had left her languid but not stupefied, and for an hour or so the work distracted her altogether from her troubles. 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. "I had to give in to him. ‘Yes, miss.
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