He left his office at 5:39 according to her watch. Not at all. She sat with him in the courtyard after serving him 20 spiced wine. 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. Love, obliterated, annihilated; out of his heart and out of his Bible. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. All this while he was arranging the medicines on the stand and jotting down his instructions on a chart sheet.
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