[The Baudelaire pleases Henry, and he murmurs, almost to himself:]
Sors-tu du gouffre noir ou descends-tu des astres?
[But the reminder of Oscar's book makes him frown.]
Blue is the only colour of book in which a gentleman should appear in his lifetime. It seems grossly imprudent of him to pilfer the lives of his friends for his novel, to say nothing of the appalling lack of taste. I suppose I shall have to go abroad for a season after it is published—Italy, perhaps; they have no feeling for what passes for literature in England there. [He drinks, still frowning.] You say it is known to people here. Is there a copy to be found?
action
Sors-tu du gouffre noir ou descends-tu des astres?
[But the reminder of Oscar's book makes him frown.]
Blue is the only colour of book in which a gentleman should appear in his lifetime. It seems grossly imprudent of him to pilfer the lives of his friends for his novel, to say nothing of the appalling lack of taste. I suppose I shall have to go abroad for a season after it is published—Italy, perhaps; they have no feeling for what passes for literature in England there. [He drinks, still frowning.] You say it is known to people here. Is there a copy to be found?