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" "Mr. She looked at me as though I were some unclean thing, as though my soul were weighted with every sin in the calendar. 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 had been so busy with life that, for a vast gulf of time, as it seemed, she had given no thought to those ancient, imagined things of her childhood. “I have come from a very unfashionable quarter,” she said, “and I do not think that I have been inside a milliner’s shop for a year.
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