This was not the sort of confession which he had been expecting. Andrew's church, the bell of which was tolling, was covered with spectators. ‘Quite mad, nuns are. 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. Wood and the waterman, meanwhile, proceeded in the direction of St. ‘For instance, why have you reverted to your nun’s habit for this particular adventure?’ ‘That is easy.
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