Michelle bypassed the ordering counter and surfed directly to their table. 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. And they had an idea of what men were like behind all their nicety. Hastily ascending these steps, Jack found the door, as he anticipated, locked. She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred.
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