Портрет Дориана Грея

           Thehead-keepercamerunningupwithastickinhishand. 

           "Where,sir?Whereishe?"heshouted. Atthesametimethefiringceasedalongtheline. 

           "Here,"answeredSirGeoffrey,angrily,hurryingtowardsthethicket. "Whyonearthdon’tyoukeepyourmenback? Spoiledmyshootingfortheday." 

           Dorianwatchedthemastheyplungedintothealder-clump,brushingthelithe,swingingbranchesaside. Inafewmomentstheyemerged,draggingabodyafterthemintothesunlight. Heturnedawayinhorror. Itseemedtohimthatmisfortunefollowedwhereverhewent. HeheardSirGeoffreyaskifthemanwasreallydead,andtheaffirmativeanswerofthekeeper. Thewoodseemedtohimtohavebecomesuddenlyalivewithfaces. Therewasthetramplingofmyriadfeet,andthelowbuzzofvoices. Agreatcopper-breastedpheasantcamebeatingthroughtheboughsoverhead. 

           Afterafewmoments,thatweretohim,inhisperturbedstate,likeendlesshoursofpain,hefeltahandlaidonhisshoulder. Hestarted,andlookedround. 

           "Dorian,"saidLordHenry,"Ihadbettertellthemthattheshootingisstoppedforto-day. Itwouldnotlookwelltogoon." 

           "Iwishitwerestoppedforever,Harry,"heanswered,bitterly. "Thewholethingishideousandcruel. Istheman...?" 

           Hecouldnotfinishthesentence.