Well, what a strapping piece of trouble that was. How lovely. The two pieces of meat guarding him looked like awful news, though.

But despite his grudging acceptance of social mores-- cutting the beloved hair of his youth, abandoning most of his poet airs-- Dorian had a taste for trouble. And a perishing thirst for actual drink. It was uncivilized, this country. So he simply plastered on a dimwitted smile and strolled along with the entourage as if he knew no better.