She ran her gaze over him, and allowed her eyelashes to flutter down. 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. It is enough to make a man throw away canvas and brushes into the bottomless precipices, enough to make one weep with despair at his utter and absolute impotence. It was the largest room in the house, which was why it had been given over to the main business of the convent as a house of God. “I’d give anything,” he remarked, “to see our little Vee happily and comfortably married.
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