Oscar Wilde And The Ring Of Death - Plot & Excerpts
I had gone in answer to his urgent summons—a telegram that reached me in my room in Gower Street at nine o’clock: COME TO THE CADOGAN AT ONCE. BRING GALOSHES AND INSPIRATION. OSCAR. I found my friend seated at a corner table, alone, the débris of breakfast all around him. In his right hand he held both a pencil and a lighted cigarette; in his left he nursed a glass of Portuguese Arinto wine. Before him lay a sheet of foolscap writing paper, densely covered with lines and dates and names and emendations. As I approached, he looked up at me. His hair was well-brushed and he was freshly shaven, but there were ochre circles beneath his red-rimmed eyes. ‘Has it stopped raining?’ he asked, smiling at me gently and drawing slowly on his cigarette. ‘For the moment,’ I said. I sat down beside him and looked around the table for a coffee cup. ‘How are you this morning?’ I asked. He closed his eyes and through his nostrils exhaled a long, slow, mistral of cigarette smoke. ‘I am exhausted, Robert, utterly.’ Still holding the cigarette and pencil, he picked up the coffee pot and poured me a cup.
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