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. She was sitting on the mean straw mattress that was placed on the iron bedstead in the makeshift cell, while Melusine stood with her back to the door, confronting her old nurse with the truth. The raising of twenty-five pounds was a task altogether beyond her powers. Sheppard, whose maternal fears drew her in another direction, hurried off to the Mint. ‘What mischief?’ ‘I don’t know, but I’ll go bail you’re at something. In other respects, they were equally indecorous and offensive.
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