She felt herself falling, her bile rising in her 61 throat, the cold wind spinning around her like vertigo. Amid this varied throng,—varied in appearance, but alike in character,—one object alone, we have said, rivetted Mrs. 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 was a work of no slight danger, for every instant a wall, or fragment of a building, came crashing to the ground.
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