(no subject)
She's married.
Dear, lovely, Mrs. Linton...the woman I had hoped would make me the finest of paramours is married. What a terrible, dreadful shame. For her. Now do I plan to dispose of her faithless person or continue to pursue her and find just how far she dares sink into immorality? At this point, I'm just not so certain...Either way I could have a spot of fun. Even if I have not dared pick up my pen as of late in fear that I will mark this journal to hell. I ask myself, "Jack, have you gone soft and let a pretty face steer you from your course?" The answer is, most assuredly, no. Nothing will ever kill that conviction within me that immoral, faithless, lying, deceitful and filthy women can ever be worth more than the velvet lining of my bag.
But in regards to Mrs. Linton...we shall see.
Ah and the delightful Detective Holmes! What more can be said about such a man? He thinks he knows everything, the arrogant git. Threatening me with his so-called investigation, flailing about with his claims of proof, his convictions that I am some fiend that he will not even name.
He knows nothing.
And yet...this dance has just begun between us and even now, my blood hums in my veins at the prospect of anticipating each of my partner's moves. Will he make good on those promises? Will he supply this proof of Who and What I am? Or will he take the role of spectator for now and fool himself into thinking that I will sweat myself into a panic and make a full confession?
It will certainly be thrilling to find out.
Dear, lovely, Mrs. Linton...the woman I had hoped would make me the finest of paramours is married. What a terrible, dreadful shame. For her. Now do I plan to dispose of her faithless person or continue to pursue her and find just how far she dares sink into immorality? At this point, I'm just not so certain...Either way I could have a spot of fun. Even if I have not dared pick up my pen as of late in fear that I will mark this journal to hell. I ask myself, "Jack, have you gone soft and let a pretty face steer you from your course?" The answer is, most assuredly, no. Nothing will ever kill that conviction within me that immoral, faithless, lying, deceitful and filthy women can ever be worth more than the velvet lining of my bag.
But in regards to Mrs. Linton...we shall see.
Ah and the delightful Detective Holmes! What more can be said about such a man? He thinks he knows everything, the arrogant git. Threatening me with his so-called investigation, flailing about with his claims of proof, his convictions that I am some fiend that he will not even name.
He knows nothing.
And yet...this dance has just begun between us and even now, my blood hums in my veins at the prospect of anticipating each of my partner's moves. Will he make good on those promises? Will he supply this proof of Who and What I am? Or will he take the role of spectator for now and fool himself into thinking that I will sweat myself into a panic and make a full confession?
It will certainly be thrilling to find out.