Hi, it's Phoebe. This February we're celebrating 10 years of our show with a live tour, and

we're very excited to be coming to London. We'll be telling brand new stories live on

stage, and you can even get meet-and-greet tickets to come and say hi before the show.

Tickets are on sale now at ThisIsCriminal.com slash live. We can't wait to see you there.

Chapter 15 That evening at 830, exquisitely dressed in

wearing a large buttonhole of parmed violets. Dorian Gray was ushered into Lady Narborough's

drawing room by bowing servants. His forehead was throbbing with mad and nerves,

and he felt wildly excited. But his manner, as he bent over his hostess' hand,

was as easy and graceful as ever. Perhaps one never seems so much at one's ease,

as when one has to play a part. Certainly, no one looking at Dorian Gray that night

could have believed that he had passed through a tragedy as horrible as any tragedy of our age.

Those finely-shaped fingers could never have clutched a knife for sin,

nor those smiling lips have cried out on God in goodness. He himself could not help wondering

at the calm of his demeanor, and for a moment felt keenly the terrible pleasure of a double life.

It was a small party, got up rather in a hurry by Lady Narborough, who was a very clever woman

with what Lord Henry used to describe as the remains of really remarkable ugliness.

She had proved an excellent wife to one of our most tedious ambassadors,

and having buried her husband properly in a marble mausoleum, which she had herself designed,

and married off her daughters to some rich, rather elderly men,

she devoted herself now to the pleasures of French fiction, French cooking,

and French as spree when she could get it.

Dorian was one of her special favorites, and she always told him that she was extremely glad

...