He obliges and takes a cigarette for himself. The lighter is an old gift too, this one from a lover in the 1960s. It's only that Dorian has never really thought about these people after he finished with them. If he didn't have a perfect memory, he could have so easily forgotten that lover's name.
But Harry, of course, is different.
Wreathed in smoke and symbolism, Dorian pulls the remaining cigarettes out of the case and shoves them into his jacket pocket. And he lets that pretty cigarette case, as old as any of his sins, fall to the earth streets. He doesn't stop walking.
(If his life really were a novel, he'd have cast it into the river, but a craftsman like Lord Henry can't be so easily thrown away. With a silent apology to Oscar, Dorian can only call on weaker metaphors, and leave behind a surface sign of that man's art.)
no subject
But Harry, of course, is different.
Wreathed in smoke and symbolism, Dorian pulls the remaining cigarettes out of the case and shoves them into his jacket pocket. And he lets that pretty cigarette case, as old as any of his sins, fall to the earth streets. He doesn't stop walking.
(If his life really were a novel, he'd have cast it into the river, but a craftsman like Lord Henry can't be so easily thrown away. With a silent apology to Oscar, Dorian can only call on weaker metaphors, and leave behind a surface sign of that man's art.)