Портрет Дориана Грея

           Itmightescapethehideousnessofsin,butthehideousnessofagewasinstoreforit. Thecheekswouldbecomeholloworflaccid. Yellowcrow’s-feetwouldcreeproundthefadingeyesandmakethemhorrible. Thehairwouldloseitsbrightness,themouthwouldgapeordroop,wouldbefoolishorgross,asthemouthsofoldmenare. Therewouldbethewrinkledthroat,thecold,blue-veinedhands,thetwistedbody,thatherememberedinthegrandfatherwhohadbeensosterntohiminhisboyhood. Thepicturehadtobeconcealed. Therewasnohelpforit. 

           "Bringitin,Mr.Hubbard,please,"hesaid,wearily,turninground. "IamsorryIkeptyousolong. Iwasthinkingofsomethingelse." 

           "Alwaysgladtohavearest,Mr.Gray,"answeredtheframe-maker,whowasstillgaspingforbreath. "Whereshallweputit,sir?" 

           "Oh,anywhere. Here:thiswilldo. Idon’twanttohaveithungup. Justleanitagainstthewall. Thanks." 

           "Mightonelookattheworkofart,sir?" 

           Dorianstarted. "Itwouldnotinterestyou,Mr.Hubbard,"hesaid,keepinghiseyeontheman. Hefeltreadytoleapuponhimandflinghimtothegroundifhedaredtoliftthegorgeoushangingthatconcealedthesecretofhislife. "Ishan’ttroubleyouanymorenow. Iammuchobligedforyourkindnessincominground." 

           "Notatall,notatall,Mr.Gray. Everreadytodoanythingforyou,sir. "AndMr.Hubbardtrampeddownstairs,followedbytheassistant,whoglancedbackatDorianwithalookofshywonderinhisrough,uncomelyface. Hehadneverseenanyonesomarvellous.