He's here," returned the skipper, pointing significantly downwards. Vorsack looked pale and pink. "But it won't do. Nine years ago, I worked in this very house—had a kind indulgent master, whom I robbed—twice robbed, at your instigation, villain; a mistress, whom you have murdered; a companion, whose friendship I have for ever forfeited; a mother, whose heart I have well-nigh broken. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. 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. "Whose house do you want, master?" said the man, touching his hat.
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