“A man like that taints a girl by looking at her, by his mere conversation. Instead, they lived a Bohemian existence, moving from patron to patron, city to city. At the same time,” she added, in a suddenly altered tone, “it isn’t anything whatever to do with you, is it?” “Why not?” he answered. 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. She realized that with a pang of disgust and horror. There were too many kills, too many unsolved files in too many cabinets.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDEzLjU4LjIyMi4xNjIgLSAxMS0wNi0yMDI0IDA3OjIxOjA2IC0gMzUwMjg0NjE5
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