Fifty Shades of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

case.
    â€œConsistently one of the great ideas of our time,” she said. “A smoke.”
    Just then, the carriage began to slow.
    â€œAh! We must be here,” Helen said. She was eager to get out into the open air with Dorian, and then to cozy up to a bottle of gin. But no—she heard Edgar whip the horse.
    â€œNo,” she said with a sigh, for the solemnity was infectious. “We actually aren’t there yet.”
    There was a brief whinny from the horse, then the galloping speed resumed.

CHAPTER V
    A t half past twelve a week later, Rosemary Hall turned in the direction of Berkeley Square to call on her father, Edmund Hall, a genial if somewhat rough-mannered old widower whom the outside world called selfish because it derived no particular benefit from him, but who was considered generous by Society as he fed the people who amused him. He was a retired diplomat, and was now dedicated to pursuing the aristocratic art of doing absolutely nothing. He had two large townhouses, but preferred to live in chambers, as it was less trouble, and took most of his meals at the club. He loathed American influences and was convinced that England was going to the dogs. His principles were out of date, but there was a good deal to be said for his prejudices.
    When Rosemary entered the room, she found her father sitting in a rough shooting coat, smoking a pipe, and grumbling over a newspaper.
    â€œRosemary!” he cried, and stood with outstretched arms.
    â€œFather!” Rosemary ran to him and fell into his bearish embrace.
    â€œWhat brings you out so early? I thought you artist types never got up until noon and weren’t visible until two.”
    Rosemary laughed and held him tightly. “Father, I just stopped by to show you something. And then I have to go deliver it elsewhere. And I may never see it again!”
    She flew out of his grasp and ran to the door where she’d propped the painting. She was behaving erratically, this she knew—talking fast, unable to stay focused, in a frenzied toss-up between laughter and tears. It had been days since she had any sleep, ever since Dorian vanished with Helen. She hadn’t heard from either of them.
    Last night had been the worst of all, though. Not even the sordid dream had come to whisk her into oblivion. Exhaustion wracked her body, and she felt feverish. She had prayed—reciting not just her nightly prayers but new ones altogether. She prayed to be cleansed of her desire so that she could be returned to a mind of purity. She apologized to God for lusting. Yet a part of her didn’t feel sorry. A part of her was lying to her Lord. An horrific thought struck her: Is Dorian Gray now my Lord?
    No, of course not, she told herself. She was just acting hysterical and needed to calm down. She took a long bath and drank an herbal tea laced with laudanum that Helen had given her. The tea put her in a stupor that reduced her anxieties. The volume of her thoughts decreased. Consciousness lazed in a dull, sprawling babble. But every time she nodded off, the memory of Helen’s cackling broke through and the image of Dorian looking at Helen with such intrigue, such inspiration, lightning-bolted through her mind, shedding a cruel light on all her loneliness therein.
    Questions swarmed her. What had happened after they left? What was happening at that moment? Were they still together? Was he in love with Helen? Helen always talked about her husband’s indiscretions, but Rosemary knew that Helen entertained many of her own. Would she use and discard Dorian the way she did her other lovers? Or would she fall in love with him, too?
    By the time dawn seeped in and the chirping of birds livened the trees, Rosemary was still wide awake with dread. She tried to pass the time with painting, returning to an old landscape piece she’d abandoned when she met Dorian. Nothing had ever felt so hideously boring, and in a nervous fit she splattered a