‘Pitiful. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. She was never violent when angry: she became as calm and baffling as the sea in doldrums. Long ago. The winters were bitter here, they could have just as easily been frozen off. " She paused. The man was dangerous. "Untie his arms, and take off that handkerchief. 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 must kill this man, or kill herself. He returned the locket without comment.
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