It had been very peaceful in the little cave for countless years. The infant’s body, now missing its pulverized head, was still twitching among the blood-soaked ruins of corpses. 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. Winds returned, the gardens withered, and roses would not bloom. Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites.
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