Dear loveliest Rose,

A short note; and the last I think. I am almost sure I understand now.

I must tell you, I woke up again. Finally. And would you believe the first thing I said? Of course you would and laugh yourself right off the bed this time, I have no doubt.

– Bah! another one gone. None of the pens here will work longer than five words; their ink dried up decades ago. It is most frustrating. Sorry, should not have interrupted, my head is whirling, please continue –

I said, in that exquisite moment of romantic perfectness: "O good, I thought it would be you."

I am still cringing. Why did you get all the quick wits and romantic aptitude while I just have a foot the perfect size for my mouth? Perhaps I should have practised batting my eyelashes. If you ever tell anyone I wrote that I will – I do not know exactly what, something terribly unpleasant at any rate.

But he kissed me again, and called me his own sweet Rose, so perhaps it wasn't so bad.

I am trying to think of something to say; an ending, a neat coda of some sort, but I am too absolutely, completely happy to manage anything so ordinary as thought.

My only wish is that I could see you again. But I think I will. Every day, in fact, perhaps, I think. O, I truly, truly can't; not now! So I will finish.

Farewell, love, and see you soon,

Wish me luck,

Rose


So, The Picture of Dorian Grey it most certainly is not, but there is a glimmering of similarity which managed to justify the title to my mind. If you have any questions at all ask them and I shall be more than happy to answer in as long-winded a way as possible.