At the present moment she was living in a world of her own creation, a carnival of brave men and fair women, characters out of the tales she had so newly read for the first time. before them soldiers. ” To which the only possible reply seemed to be, “I’m not coming home. You will never be happy with this hanging over you. There was one verse that haunted and mocked her. 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. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes bright. But this revulsion was engulfed by the succeeding waves of pity and understanding.
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