Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           Writtenononeside,inblackinkinneatcursivehandwriting,is:

           Whydidn’tyoutellmetherewasdanger?Whydidn’tyouwarnme?

           Ladiesknowwhattoguardagainst,becausetheyreadnovelsthattellthemofthesetricks…

           IrecognizethequotefromTess.IamstunnedbythecoincidenceasI’vejustspentthreehourswritingaboutthenovelsofThomasHardyinmyfinalexamination.Perhapsthereisnocoincidence…perhapsit’sdeliberate.Iinspectthebooksclosely,threevolumesofTessofthed’Urbervilles.Iopenthefrontcoverofoneofthebooks.Writteninanoldtypefaceonthefrontplateis:

           London:JackR.Osgood,McIlvaineandCo.,1891.

           Holyshit—theyarefirsteditions.Theymustbeworthafortune,andIknowimmediatelywho’ssentthem.Kateisatmyshouldergazingatthebooks.Shepicksupthecard.

           “Firsteditions,”Iwhisper.

           “No.”Kate’seyesarewidewithdisbelief.“Grey?”

           Inod.“Can’tthinkofanyoneelse.”

           “Whatdoesthiscardmean?”

           “Ihavenoidea.Ithinkit’sawarning—honestly,hekeepswarningmeoff.Ihavenoideawhy.It’snotlikeI’mbeatinghisdoordown.”Ifrown.

           “Iknowyoudon’twanttotalkabouthim,Ana,buthe’sseriouslyintoyou.Warningsorno.”

           IhavenotletmyselfdwellonChristianGreyforthepastweek.Okay…sohisgrayeyesarestillhauntingmydreams,andIknowitwilltakeaneternitytoexpungethefeelofhisarmsaroundmeandhiswonderfulfragrancefrommybrain.Whyhashesentmethis?HetoldmethatIwasn’tforhim.