Robert Louis Stevenson

Mr. Ut­ter­son the law­yer was a man of a rugged coun­ten­ance that was never lighted by a smile;

Hence, al­though I had now two char­ac­ters as well as two ap­pear­ances, one was wholly evil, and the other was still the old Henry Je­kyll

for there be­fore my eyes—pale and shaken, and half faint­ing, and grop­ing be­fore him with his hands, like a man re­stored from death—there stood Henry Je­kyll!

It was Hyde, after all, and Hyde alone, that was guilty.

“If he be Mr. Hyde,” he had thought, “I shall be Mr. Seek.”

­prove. “I in­cline to Cain’s heresy,” he used to say quaintly: “I let my brother go to the devil in his own way.”

Aye, it must be that; the ghost of some old sin, the can­cer of some con­cealed dis­grace: pun­ish­ment com­ing, pede claudo, years after memory has for­got­ten and self-love con­doned the fault.”

I mean from hence­forth to lead a life of ex­treme se­clu­sion; you must not be sur­prised, nor must you doubt my friend­ship, if my door is of­ten shut even to you. You must suf­fer me to go my own dark way.

I have brought on my­self a pun­ish­ment and a danger that I can­not name. If I am the chief of sin­ners, I am the chief of suf­fer­ers also.

Yes, it was dis­ap­pear­ance; here again, as in the mad will which he had long ago re­stored to its au­thor, here again were the idea of a dis­ap­pear­ance and the name of Henry Je­kyll brack­et­ted.