He would always see the picture of the huge, raw-boned Dutchman, haranguing and thundering the word of God into the dull ears of South Sea Islanders, who, an hour later, would be carrying fruit penitently to their wooden images. Ennison listened, and he forgot where he was. ’ For a moment he looked daunted. At the sound of the door Ann Veronica uncovered a tearless face, and with one swift movement assumed a conversational attitude. 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. This farewell had been particularly distasteful to him.
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