[For a long moment Henry simply stares at him, studying that beautiful young face as if it were a particularly complex piece of sheet-music. It is impossible; surely it is impossible. Perhaps, he thinks, this is some feverish dream born of his own dread at growing older, of the sudden shock of Victoria actually gathering the wherewithal to leave. But the sensations are too intense, the textures too real to be a mere dream.]
Were anyone else to say that to me, I should think that they were having a joke at my expense, and not a terribly funny one.
[He leans back in his seat, his brown agate eyes never wavering from Dorian's face.]
But you don't joke, do you? You have never done so with me—you said to me once, did you not, that if you ever committed a crime you would confess it to me.
[Henry's expression is dreamy, heavy-lidded, but there is something brewing in his brain, part of which is the deepening suspicion that there is in fact much his friend has never told him.]
action
Were anyone else to say that to me, I should think that they were having a joke at my expense, and not a terribly funny one.
[He leans back in his seat, his brown agate eyes never wavering from Dorian's face.]
But you don't joke, do you? You have never done so with me—you said to me once, did you not, that if you ever committed a crime you would confess it to me.
[Henry's expression is dreamy, heavy-lidded, but there is something brewing in his brain, part of which is the deepening suspicion that there is in fact much his friend has never told him.]