The Picture Of Dorian Gray Oscar Wilde Novels & Stories

I could only imagine how long he had been lying in the forest with the insects and filth. I wondered who did this to him. Who was trying to hurt him? Who was he trying to get away from? The thought of it filled my heart with hurt. I could only wonder; no answers appeared to satisfy my questions. I glanced at him again. He needed to rest. I had to leave him alone. As I got up to leave, I felt a hand snatch mine and hold it tightly. I was scared stiff as I saw Dorian grasping my hand. His eyes had lost their emerald colour and were a ghostly white. He didn't seem to be looking at me; his eyes seemed to be staring into a void, but his weak voice seemed to be addressing me.

POV: Beatrice A worn copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray wasn’t something I ever imagined finding among Ryuu’s belongings. Yet, there it was, the creased spine and dog-eared pages betraying how many times it had been read. As I picked it up to place it among my own books, a few photographs slipped free, drifting silently to the floor like ghosts of a past I didn’t know existed. Two photos. Both folded, creased with time.

"Make it eight, then." Luana's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Guess I'll just... shut up then." The car pulled away, headlights slicing through the night, leaving Clarissa alone with her mounting fears. At the villa entrance, a tall and straight figure leaned casually against a car door. Between Dorian's slender fingers was a cigarette, its curling smoke veiling his angular face. His thick lashes cast deep shadows beneath his eyes in the dim streetlight. A white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, revealed the sharp clavicle of his neck, sleeves rolled to expose pale, snow-like skin.

She turned to Dorian but the man just stood still, staring blankly,his eyes looked distant,same look he had earlier when he was looking at that wolf back at the farmhouse,was he thinking? Few seconds after,a man,dressed in all black, approached them, raising something in his hand, Penelope almost let out a low gasp when she saw the bundle of cash in his hand. Gesturing with his brow,Dorian ordered for him to place the money against the counter and he did so, leaving afterwards. "Will that do?" He asked an oblivious question knowing fully well he was giving well over much more than what the seller asked for. "Take everything,anyone you want"

“My God, you look horrible.” “Thank you,” I tried to smile, but what came out was a grimace, my lips refusing to form anything other than a frown of sadness. We entered the living room. Eloise immediately looked around, her perceptive eyes catching every detail. The coffee table still had the magazine Dorian had been leafing through. His favorite armchair, by the window, was empty. The picture frames, once scattered across the shelves, still displayed the same photos of us both—a collage of a life that no longer existed.

He clears his throat, the sound too loud in the quiet hall. "Does anyone have any questions regarding the theme of vanity?" Adrian asks, his voice steady, betraying none of the physical discomfort he is enduring. A girl in the third row stands up, adjusting her glasses. "Professor, do you think Wilde intended the portrait to represent the subconscious mind?" Adrian nods, grateful for the distraction. "An excellent interpretation. The portrait serves as a mirror to Dorian's soul, yes. It captures the moral decay that his physical beauty hides." He answers politely, keeping the discussion academic, safe. He avoids looking at the back row, but he can feel Ryder’s eyes on him, a burning gaze tha

He says something to whoever picks up, waits, and thirty seconds later his phone buzzes with an image. He turns the screen around. Dorian looks at the portrait of Edward Ashvale, 1887. He looks at it for a long time. Then he puts the phone face down on the desk. "She wasn't researching the estate," he says. "No." "She was researching him." Marcus doesn't answer. He doesn't need to.

— M. The paper trembled in his hand. "No," Dorian breathed. "No, no, no." "Good morning, boy." The voice came from the shadows behind him. Dorian spun around. The torch flared. Lord Marrow stood in the doorway, grey and gaunt, leaning on a staff, his black eyes glittering in his ruined face. And at his shoulder, small and pale and weeping, stood a round-faced woman in a brown dress. Odette. "You are very predictable, Beta Vance," Marrow said. "I told Odette you would come. I told her you would try to be brave."

The hand writing same as the other one. I checked the drawer again, searching for anything that might explain the photographs, but found nothing else of interest. No documents about Julian, no letters, nothing that could tell me why Lucian had kept those pictures. A faint sound outside made me freeze. Footsteps. I quickly returned the photographs to the drawer, making sure everything was exactly where I’d found it. Then I hurried towards the door, opened it carefully and slipped into the corridor, pulling it shut behind me. I looked up and nearly stopped breathing. Dorian Black stood a few feet away, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding a newspaper. It was barely five in the mo

{Elara’s POV} I stared at the photo a little longer before carefully placing it back inside the book and setting it on the table. I laid back on the bed and thought about the wide smile Dorian had in the photo. He looked like a completely different person. That photo was probably only a few years old, and I couldn’t help but wonder if they were still friends, or what might have happened to make Dorian so cold and controlling. Either way, I wouldn’t get the answers by thinking about it, so I closed my eyes and went to sleep.