Maximum-assistance view: every word above everyday vocabulary is explained at every appearance; each name is introduced at its first appearance in the chapter.

STORY OF THE DOOR

Mr. Utterson (Mr Utterson, the dry careful lawyer through whose eyes we watch) the lawyer was a man of a rugged (rough and strong) countenance (the face; composure) that was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty (barely enough; thin) and embarrassed (to make awkwardly ashamed) in discourse (formal talk); backward (toward the back) in sentiment (a tender feeling); lean (to tilt against; thin), long, dusty (covered with dust), dreary (gloomy and dull) and yet somehow lovable (easy to love). At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste, something eminently (notably) human beaconed (shone out like a beacon) from his eye; something indeed which never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these silent (making no sound) symbols (a sign standing for something) of the after-dinner (after dinner) face, but more often and loudly (with loud voice) in the acts of his life. He was austere (stern and severe) with himself; drank gin (the strong clear drink) when he was alone, to mortify (to wound someone's pride) a taste for vintages (fine old wine); and though he enjoyed the theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance (patience with others) for others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy (pain at another's good), at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds (a wrong act); and in any extremity (the farthest end; the last resort) inclined (to lean toward) to help rather than to reprove (to scold; correct). “I incline (to lean toward) to Cain’s heresy (a belief against the accepted faith),” he used (use: habit; custom — the old sense here) to say quaintly (oddly and pleasantly): “I let my brother go to the devil (the evil one) in his own way.” In this character, it was frequently his fortune (wealth; luck) to be the last reputable (of good repute) acquaintance (a person one knows slightly) and the last good influence in the lives of downgoing (downgoing: going downhill in life) men. And to such as these, so long as they came about his chambers (a room), he never marked a shade (shadowed cool; a degree of color) of change in his demeanour (one's outward manner).

No doubt the feat (a striking deed) was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstrative (not showing feeling) at the best, and even his friendship (the bond of friends) seemed to be founded in a similar catholicity (broad wideness) of good-nature (kindly temper). It is the mark of a modest (not proud; moderate) man to accept his friendly circle ready-made (already made) from the hands of opportunity; and that was the lawyer’s way. His friends were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the longest; his affections (warm love), like ivy (the climbing evergreen vine), were the growth of time, they implied (to hint without saying) no aptness (fitness) in the object. Hence (from here; therefore), no doubt the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield (Utterson's distant kinsman, the man about town), his distant (far off) kinsman (a male relative), the well-known man about town. It was a nut (the shelled kernel fruit) to crack (a sharp break or noise) for many, what these two could see in each other, or what subject they could find in common. It was reported by those who encountered (a meeting; to meet) them in their Sunday walks, that they said nothing, looked singularly (strangely; unusually) dull (not sharp; not bright) and would hail (frozen rain; to call out to) with obvious relief the appearance of a friend. For all that, the two men put the greatest store by these excursions (a pleasure trip), counted them the chief jewel (a precious stone; a treasure) of each week, and not only set aside occasions (a particular time; cause) of pleasure, but even resisted (to stand against) the calls of business, that they might enjoy them uninterrupted (without a break).

It chanced on one of these rambles (a walk for pleasure) that their way led them down a by-street (a small side street) in a busy quarter of London. The street was small and what is called quiet, but it drove a thriving (growing strong) trade on the weekdays (a working day). The inhabitants (one who lives in a place) were all doing well, it seemed, and all emulously (in rivalry) hoping to do better still, and laying out the surplus (what is over) of their gains in coquetry (flirting charm); so that the shop fronts stood along that thoroughfare (a busy public street) with an air of invitation (a bidding to come), like rows of smiling saleswomen (a woman who sells). Even on Sunday, when it veiled (a thin covering cloth) its more florid (showy; highly coloured) charms (winning attractiveness; a magic token) and lay comparatively (by comparison) empty of passage (passage: a sea-journey — the old sense here), the street shone (to give light) out in contrast (a set difference) to its dingy (dull and dirty-looking) neighbourhood (the surrounding district), like a fire in a forest; and with its freshly (newly) painted shutters (a window's wooden cover), well-polished (polished well) brasses (the yellow metal), and general cleanliness (clean neatness) and gaiety (merry brightness) of note, instantly (at once) caught and pleased the eye of the passenger (one carried on a journey).

Two doors from one corner, on the left hand going east the line was broken by the entry of a court; and just at that point a certain sinister (threatening evil) block of building thrust (to push hard) forward its gable (the pointed end wall of a building) on the street. It was two storeys (a floor of a building) high; showed no window, nothing but a door on the lower storey (a floor of a building) and a blind forehead (the brow) of discoloured (to stain; to change colour) wall on the upper; and bore (a tiresome person; to weary with dullness; carried) in every feature, the marks of prolonged (drawn out long) and sordid (dirty and mean) negligence (careless neglect). The door, which was equipped (to fit out) with neither bell nor knocker (the metal ring for knocking on a door), was blistered (a sore bubble on the skin) and distained (distained: stained). Tramps (to walk heavily; a walking journey) slouched (to move with a lazy bent body) into the recess (a set-back hollow) and struck matches on the panels; children kept shop upon the steps; the schoolboy (a boy at school) had tried his knife (the cutting blade) on the mouldings (the shaped wood edging of a wall or door); and for close on a generation, no one had appeared to drive away these random visitors (one who visits) or to repair (to mend) their ravages (damage).

Mr. Enfield (Richard Enfield, Utterson's distant kinsman, the man about town) and the lawyer were on the other side of the by-street (a small side street); but when they came abreast (side by side) of the entry, the former lifted up his cane (a walking stick) and pointed.

“Did you ever remark (to say; to notice) that door?” he asked; and when his companion (one who keeps company) had replied in the affirmative (saying yes), “It is connected in my mind,” added he, “with a very odd (strange; uneven) story.”

“Indeed?” said Mr. Utterson, with a slight (small; to treat as of no account) change of voice, “and what was that?”

“Well, it was this way,” returned Mr. Enfield: “I was coming home from some place at the end of the world, about three o’clock (the time-keeping machine) of a black winter morning, and my way lay through a part of town where there was literally nothing to be seen but lamps (a light vessel). Street after street and all the folks asleep (sleeping)—street after street, all lighted up as if for a procession (a moving line of people) and all as empty as a church—till at last I got into that state (state: ceremony; pomp — the old sense here) of mind when a man listens and listens and begins to long for the sight of a policeman (an officer of the law). All at once, I saw two figures: one a little man who was stumping (the cut base of a tree) along eastward (toward the east) at a good walk, and the other a girl of maybe eight or ten who was running as hard as she was able down a cross street. Well, sir, the two ran into one another naturally (by nature; of course) enough at the corner; and then came the horrible (causing horror) part of the thing; for the man trampled (stamped down under foot) calmly (with calm) over the child’s body and left her screaming (a piercing cry) on the ground. It sounds nothing to hear, but it was hellish (like hell) to see. It wasn (was — wasn't: was not)’t like a man; it was like some damned (condemned; cursed) Juggernaut. I gave a few halloa, took to my heels (the foot's back), collared (the neck band) my gentleman (a man of good birth and manners), and brought him back to where there was already quite a group about the screaming (a piercing cry) child. He was perfectly cool and made no resistance, but gave me one look, so ugly (not pleasing to see) that it brought out the sweat (the skin's moisture of labor) on me like running. The people who had turned out were the girl’s own family; and pretty soon, the doctor, for whom she had been sent, put in his appearance. Well, the child was not much the worse, more frightened (afraid), according to the Sawbones (slang for a surgeon); and there you might have supposed would be an end to it. But there was one curious (eager to know; strange) circumstance (a surrounding fact or condition). I had taken a loathing (deep disgust) to my gentleman (a man of good birth and manners) at first sight. So had the child’s family, which was only natural. But the doctor’s case was what struck me. He was the usual cut and dry apothecary (a maker and seller of medicines), of no particular age and colour (what the eye sees as red, blue, and the rest), with a strong Edinburgh accent (the tone of one's speech) and about as emotional as a bagpipe (the Scottish wind instrument). Well, sir, he was like the rest of us; every time he looked at my prisoner (one held captive), I saw that Sawbones (slang for a surgeon) turn sick and white with the desire to kill him. I knew what was in his mind, just as he knew what was in mine; and killing being out of the question, we did the next best. We told the man we could and would make such a scandal (shameful public talk) out of this as should make his name stink (a foul smell) from one end of London to the other. If he had any friends or any credit, we undertook (to take upon oneself) that he should lose them. And all the time, as we were pitching (to throw; the height of a note; tar) it in red hot, we were keeping the women off him as best we could for they were as wild as harpies (a fierce grasping woman; a monster of fable). I never saw a circle of such hateful (deserving hate) faces; and there was the man in the middle, with a kind of black sneering (a look or tone of scorn) coolness (calm lack of feeling)—frightened (afraid) too, I could see that—but carrying it off, sir, really like Satan. ‘If you choose to make capital out of this accident,’ said he, ‘I am naturally (by nature; of course) helpless (unable to help oneself). No gentleman (a man of good birth and manners) but wishes to avoid a scene,’ says he. ‘Name your figure.’ Well, we screwed (to force by pressure) him up to a hundred pounds for the child’s family; he would have clearly liked to stick out; but there was something about the lot of us that meant mischief (playful trouble; harm), and at last he struck. The next thing was to get the money; and where do you think he carried us but to that place with the door?—whipped (pulled out quickly) out a key, went in, and presently (soon; now) came back with the matter of ten pounds in gold and a cheque (a written order to a bank to pay money) for the balance on Coutts’s, drawn payable (to be paid) to bearer (one who carries) and signed with a name that I can’t mention, though it’s one of the points of my story, but it was a name at least very well known and often printed. The figure was stiff (not bending); but the signature (one's written name) was good for more than that if it was only genuine (real; true). I took the liberty (freedom) of pointing out to my gentleman (a man of good birth and manners) that the whole business looked apocryphal (of doubtful truth), and that a man does not, in real life, walk into a cellar (an underground storeroom) door at four in the morning and come out with another man’s cheque (a written order to a bank to pay money) for close upon a hundred pounds. But he was quite easy and sneering (a look or tone of scorn). ‘Set your mind at rest,’ says he, ‘I will stay with you till the banks open and cash the cheque (a written order to a bank to pay money) myself.’ So we all set off, the doctor, and the child’s father, and our friend and myself, and passed the rest of the night in my chambers (a room); and next day, when we had breakfasted, went in a body to the bank. I gave in the cheque (a written order to a bank to pay money) myself, and said I had every reason to believe it was a forgery (a false copy made to deceive). Not a bit of it. The cheque (a written order to a bank to pay money) was genuine (real; true).”

“Tut-tut!” said Mr. Utterson.

“I see you feel as I do,” said Mr. Enfield. “Yes, it’s a bad story. For my man was a fellow that nobody could have to do with, a really damnable (deserving damnation) man; and the person that drew the cheque (a written order to a bank to pay money) is the very pink of the proprieties (proper correct behavior), celebrated (to keep a feast) too, and (what makes it worse) one of your fellows who do what they call good. Blackmail (money forced by threats of exposure), I suppose; an honest man paying through the nose for some of the capers (to leap about playfully) of his youth. Black Mail House is what I call the place with the door, in consequence (what follows). Though even that, you know, is far from explaining all,” he added, and with the words fell into a vein (a blood channel; a streak) of musing (quiet thinking).

From this he was recalled (to call back to mind) by Mr. Utterson asking rather suddenly: “And you don’t know if the drawer (a sliding box in a table) of the cheque (a written order to a bank to pay money) lives there?”

“A likely place, isn (is — isn't: is not)’t it?” returned Mr. Enfield. “But I happen to have noticed his address; he lives in some square or other.”

“And you never asked about the—place with the door?” said Mr. Utterson.

“No, sir; I had a delicacy (a choice fine food; fine sensitivity),” was the reply. “I feel very strongly (with strength) about putting questions; it partakes (to take a share in) too much of the style of the day of judgment (the power of judging; a decision). You start a question, and it’s like starting a stone. You sit quietly (without noise) on the top of a hill; and away the stone goes, starting others; and presently (soon; now) some bland (smooth and mild) old bird (the last you would have thought of) is knocked (to strike with the knuckles) on the head in his own back garden and the family have to change their name. No sir, I make it a rule of mine: the more it looks like Queer Street (an old saying: in trouble, especially money trouble), the less I ask.”

“A very good rule, too,” said the lawyer.

“But I have studied the place for myself,” continued Mr. Enfield. “It seems scarcely (hardly) a house. There is no other door, and nobody goes in or out of that one but, once in a great while, the gentleman (a man of good birth and manners) of my adventure (a daring undertaking). There are three windows looking on the court on the first floor; none below; the windows are always shut but they’re clean. And then there is a chimney (the smoke shaft of a house) which is generally smoking; so somebody must live there. And yet it’s not so sure; for the buildings are so packed (crowded close) together about the court, that it’s hard to say where one ends and another begins.”

The pair walked on again for a while in silence (absence of sound); and then “Enfield,” said Mr. Utterson, “that’s a good rule of yours.”

“Yes, I think it is,” returned Enfield.

“But for all that,” continued the lawyer, “there’s one point I want to ask. I want to ask the name of that man who walked over the child.”

“Well,” said Mr. Enfield, “I can’t see what harm (hurt; damage) it would do. It was a man of the name of Hyde.”

“Hm,” said Mr. Utterson. “What sort of a man is he to see?”

“He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his appearance; something displeasing (to annoy; fail to please), something down-right (plain and complete) detestable (hateful). I never saw a man I so disliked (not to like), and yet I scarce (in short supply) know why. He must be deformed (deformed: twisted out of true shape) somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity (twisted or ugly shape), although I couldn (could — couldn't: could not)’t specify (to name exactly) the point. He’s an extraordinary (beyond the ordinary) looking man, and yet I really can name nothing out of the way. No, sir; I can make no hand of it; I can’t describe him. And it’s not want of memory; for I declare (to announce formally) I can see him this moment.”

Mr. Utterson again walked some way in silence (absence of sound) and obviously under a weight of consideration (careful thought; regard). “You are sure he used (use: habit; custom — the old sense here) a key?” he inquired (to ask) at last.

“My dear sir...” began Enfield, surprised out of himself.

“Yes, I know,” said Utterson; “I know it must seem strange. The fact is, if I do not ask you the name of the other party, it is because I know it already. You see, Richard, your tale (a story) has gone home. If you have been inexact (not exact) in any point you had better correct it.”

“I think you might have warned (to tell of danger) me,” returned the other with a touch of sullenness (moody silent ill temper). “But I have been pedantically (with fussy over-exactness) exact, as you call it. The fellow had a key; and what’s more, he has it still. I saw him use (use: habit; custom — the old sense here) it not a week ago.”

Mr. Utterson sighed (a long sad breath) deeply (to a great depth) but said never a word; and the young man presently (soon; now) resumed (to take up again). “Here is another lesson (a taught portion) to say nothing,” said he. “I am ashamed (feeling shame) of my long tongue (the mouth's organ; a language). Let us make a bargain (a deal; a cheap buy) never to refer (to direct to; to relate to) to this again.”

“With all my heart,” said the lawyer. “I shake (to move quickly to and fro) hands on that, Richard.”