A cold night is always a good excuse to find somewhere warm to rest. The other would probably prefer his drawing room with his gown and his fire, but I can't stand the idea of idleness. Instead, a brisk walk through the streets and a drink or two in a pub are always preferable. As time has passed I have felt the other more and more clearly - Jekyll, Doctor Henry Jekyll - and can even feel who he is in relation to me, or me to him. But why should I care? The fact is that I am, and that is enough.

I exit from his house and pace the streets for a time, following the clouds of steam coming from my mouth, and my nose as it leads me deeper into London. Increasingly I find myself drawn to the area around my lodgings, as well as to the many comforts they now contain. The colour of life that I saw there on my first visit is as vibrant during the day but so much more to my taste. There are all manner of things for sale: foods, drink, people. There are women there who, already bruised, will ask you to hit them again and again. True, it's all for a price, but he can afford it. There are men who go out of a night to find a fight: watching or participating is all the same to them. The sheer quantity of life, and death, is invigorating.