Pale, flesh-colored light filtered in through the corners of the house. 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. ‘Monsieur, my wife intended not to anger you,’ he said in a tone of apology. That is why I have dyed my hair, that is why I have abandoned my rôle of ingenuèe and altered my whole style of dress. Some of the meetings are wonderful! Such earnest, beautiful women! Such deepbrowed men!.
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