une, as one may see it) to be the last good influence in the lives of moribund men.And so, it seemed, that the thread had reappeared in his life by way of the troubling matter of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and that it was choking the willpower right out of poor Mr. Utterson. Now insipid and tired, Gabriel had turned to his darling gin in an effort to stifle the snake like thread of depression, the obstacle between him and a return to his standard way of life. One of the elements of said typical lifestyle was Mr. Utterson’s weekly ramble through the streets of London with his good friend Richard Enfield. It was the first time in three weeks that the two friends had performed the ritual: their languor a direct consequence of the terrible goings on at 119 Dublin Street. As neither of the two gentlemen was in great haste to set foot in a spot anywhere near the scene of the crime, the usual area of their strolls, there was no great effort put forth by either side of the partnership to keep their weekly custom in check. As they walked through a narrow by street neither uttered a word, but both all but expected the awfully dense fog of London folklore to role in at any moment, however for now at least, the sky remained clear. It was an unusually crisp April evening; conducive to any number of ailments and illnesses, especially if one should happen to possess a weakened spirit.“Are you quit all right?” questioned Mr. Enfield. “That sounded like a nasty sort of cough, what!”“Oh, quite all right Richard,” returned Mr. Utterson. “I’ve just been feeling the effects of a bit of the grippe since this whole mess has come out. I’m afraid it has brought out the worst in me, Dick. It seems I haven’t been getting my forty winks lately.”“Bloody awful tragedy, that,” continued Enfield. “Such a good-hearted man, Dr. Jekyll. Oh, I fear we’ve gone and done it, now...
