The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. Until she had left her island, what she heard and what she saw were truths. ” He said. 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. Oh, and weeks and months of thought and feeling there are bottled up too. They took their places at a distant table.
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