"Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow. 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. The moviegoers exited the cinema in the customary daze that resulted from two hours of sensory bombardment. "Can't you guess?" returned Winifred, throwing her arms about her neck.
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