I met Mr. Hyde in the park again. He was sitting down with his back turned to me and picking the petals off roses. He got up and turned to face me, that dreadful smile on his face as usual. He leaned down and picked a rose, which he handed to me. I took it, feeling too terrified to flee or to reject him.
His eyes made me think of mouths filled with sharp teeth. Yet somehow the cold, sharp fear that always accompanied his presence intensified even further when he moved. It was as though his body was put together wrong.
Mr. Hyde bowed slightly as I took the rose, still looking me in the eye. With that, he bounded off, half-running and half-dancing.
Though I may not know the true identity of Mr. Hyde, I know exactly who he is to me. As dreadful as it is, I must accept it. Mr. Hyde is the one who gave me the bouquet of roses, and he is the one infesting Jacob's art.
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