" "I hope you never may, my love," humbly acquiesced the carpenter. 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. But kill me rather than commit this outrage. \"Could you take off your shoes?\" Michelle asked. You understand me, Charcoal. Challenge accepted. She patted John's head with her palm, its surface appealingly fuzzy.
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