On the Wednesday I rose late. I had no appointments today, so took myself for a walk into the centre of the town. It was damp underfoot from frost melt as I walked through Regents Park as I took in all the sights, sounds and smells of winter. The air was crisp and full of promise for the new year. Yet, inside, I was being warmed by my thoughts and memories. For the previous month, since I had almost ventured down to the docks as myself, I had with more frequency brought Hyde's memories out into the light of my mind. Like a hermit with a secret treasure I kept them carefully wrapped and hidden, but could not resist taking them out from time to time to polish them and make them shine.

And so it was, as I walked down the path towards a convenient bench and settled myself, that I found myself once more feeling the great weight of the cane in my hand as it came down again and again. I tasted anew the wines and rich meats that were Hyde's staples. I prowled the streets of Soho seeing all the petty iniquities of man and revelled in them.

Yet, as I relived all these events, my more penitent side readying himself to step forward to make the right noises, I felt myself overtaken with a nausea and a faintness. I shuddered, quaked, and felt myself fall away.