The Picture Of Dorian Gray Oscar Wilde Novels & Stories

I picked up the photograph and looked at it more closely. Something about the woman's face was familiar. I walked to the study and found Dorian working at his desk. "Dorian," I said. "Who is this?" He looked up and took the photograph from me. His face went pale. "Where did you find this?" he asked and his voice was sharp. "On the mantle," I said. "I have never seen it before." Dorian stared at the photograph and his hands were shaking. "That is my grandmother," he said. "My father's mother. The woman who adopted Mary Vale."

The fire in Amalia’s hearth had burned low, throwing amber light across the carved beams. Shadows curled in the corners of the room, heavy with the scent of pine and smoke. Dorian sat at the edge of the long bench, shoulders hunched, his hands clasped so tight together it looked as if he were holding back the world.

“You wanted another way.” The doorway widened. “Now you will see what happens when the boundary has no keeper.” Elias reached for Dorian’s hand. This time, he felt something grasp his wrist from the other side. A cold, unfamiliar hand. He looked down. A second figure stood behind Dorian, hidden in the darkness. It wore Dorian’s face. But unlike the real Dorian, this figure had no silver lines beneath its skin. Its eyes were completely black. And it was smiling. Dorian looked at Elias in horror.

"With immaculate staging, of course, to enhance the fairytale allure and romance trajectory these rabid gossip mutts cannot resist devouring." With those words, she proffered the 8x10 prints with a note of grim triumph - the stark portrait of my supposed new suitor and designated romantic paramour captured in studious mid-profile, each razor-carved line and arresting contour rendered in gratuitous high definition. "Meet Christian Gray, the roguishly talented yet straitlaced literary darling who's somehow seduced your affections off the page... whether he's agreed to play the role or not."

My legs ached in the heels I wore, but still, I remained obedient when the night finally came to an end, and Dorian took hold of my leash once more. “Look at me,” he ordered. It sounded harsh in front of Ellise, but when my eyes met his, I realized it was all an act. The liquid heat behind his irises promised nothing but undeniable pleasure the second we returned to his bedroom, and I could hardly wait another second. “You did well tonight.” “Thank you, Don.” My voice was scratchy, desperation laced behind it. Dorian shifted his stance, leading me by the leash while Ellise hooked her arm with his. His future wife was the picture of elegance in a yellow dress with a tight-fitting bodice, the

I was human once. Three years ago, Count Dorian Draven turned me into a vampire and took me as his wife. Back then, I believed he truly loved me. But he would often get lost staring at an oil painting that hung in the tower. I knew it was a portrait of Lenore Blackwell, his dead lover. Then, one night at midnight, I saw it with my own eyes. Dorian's soul slipped into the painting, where he wrapped his arms around a completely naked Lenore. Dorian's voice was lazy and husky. "By tomorrow, you'll be fully alive again. Then you'll take Alyona's place as Countess." Lenore laughed softly. "Dorian, I knew there was no vampire more powerful than you. To think you actually found a way to use necroma

I held it up under the lamp and looked at the wax seal at its foot, the crescent moon cradling a wolf's head, dark red in the lamplight. There was a fireplace at the end of the room, small and iron, banked low with embers. I walked to it with the page in my hand. "Neva." I did not turn around. I had known he would come. Some part of me had hoped he would. Dorian stood just inside the door. He wore the same rumpled shirt he had worn since morning, and his dark hair was a mess, and he looked as though he had not slept since the night before. He did not come closer. He only watched me, steady and grave, with those ice grey eyes.

Dorian shrugged as he began strolling towards the front door, waving a hand in dismissal as he disappeared from the mansion. The princess watched as the feral man left, her uneasy feeling remaining as she pulled at the leather collar around her neck. She took a long breath, shaken by Dorian’s show of insanity. Elika glanced over at the dark lord, quickly lowering her eyes as he turned towards her; taking a long draw of his cigarette.

“I refused to believe that love could take any other form than mine: I measured love by the extent of my jealousy, and by that standard, of course, she could not love me at all.” ~Graham Greene The End of the Affair Havana is in a red mini gown that helps showcase her toned long legs and she has a black three-inch heel on and her hair is a medium afro which brings out her full face. She's having a mild make-up on but yet she is as beautiful as ever. Zander is standing beside her, wearing a white long sleeve with three of its upper button undone, which slightly exposes his mid-chest up to the eyes of everyone. He has a black suit on top of it and his hair is in a neat bun and I must admit he

dream of form in days of thought'—who is it who says that? I forget; but it is what Dorian Gray has been to me. The merely visible presence of this lad—for he seems to me little more than a lad, though he is really over twenty—his merely visible presence—ah! I wonder can you realize all that that means? Unconsciously he defines for me the lines of a fresh school, a school that is to have in it all the passion of the romantic spirit, all the perfection of the spirit that is Greek. The harmony of soul and body—how much that is! We in our madness have separated the two, and have invented a realism that is vulgar, an ideality that is void. Harry! if you only knew what Dorian Gray is to me! You