He took another look at the painting, despite his disdain for the portrait and all it had done to his life, he matte a sensation of guilt. For he had lived his life a lie as this screened off image, cast in concealment burdened all his truths. No man but common basil and he had ever known what tragedies bestowed themselves upon the once valiant scene of Dorian. He drew the knife towards the old withered canvas, and felt the impending guilt of each tarnishment to the painting. He was overwhelmed by the falsity that he had lived under. In hushed by Lord Henry and his immoral yellowbook. Had he never offered his soul for his youth, would this be who he was? Would he had uphold more innocence? He would never know, but he could and would be free of this painting. He plunged the knife into the canvas and the nighttime fell silent.
The morning after Lord Henry awoke with no eagerness to do anything.
He had felt satisfied with his genuine activity among the elite. He had just been to a dinner ships company and was at the opera but only a few nights before. To-day would be a day that his beloved friend Basil would come over and paint him a lesson in morals and proper behavior among people. But alas Basil was still missing with no leads.. He anticipated Dorians arrival. While he was not particularly in the witticism to go to the park to-day, but he had arranged the utilization prior to his current mood, so he was bound to his word, as was Dorian to come with. So he laid himself on his divan and thought of the day he first met childly Dorian.
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