She smiled. ‘Beg your pardon, ma’am, but she’s enough to try the patience of a saint. However, I daresay that we shall come across one another before long. "I have it too!" exclaimed Hogarth, busily plying his pencil. 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. His glance swept up again and found her staring at him with much of her usual defiance, if a touch less of her customary assurance.
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