The Eve of the Birthday
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It is the ninth of November, the eve of your thirty-eighth birthday. You are walking home through the thick, swirling London fog, wrapped in heavy furs. The mist is cold against your cheek, ghost-like and clinging.
Suddenly, a man passes you, walking fast with a bag in his hand. He stops under the halo of a gas lamp. It is Basil Hallward, the painter who captured your beauty so many years ago. He is leaving for Paris, but he spots you.
"Dorian!" he calls out, grasping your arm. "What an extraordinary piece of luck! I have been waiting for you in your library ever since nine o'clock." He looks grave. "I must speak to you seriously. I hear terrible things about you, Dorian. I must know the truth."