Портрет Доріана Грея

           Thegirlwasstandingtherealone,withalookoftriumphonherface. Hereyeswerelitwithanexquisitefire.Therewasaradianceabouther. Herpartedlipsweresmilingoversomesecretoftheirown. 

           Whenheentered,shelookedathim,andanexpressionofinfinitejoycameoverher. "HowbadlyIactedto-night,Dorian!"shecried. 

           "Horribly!"heanswered,gazingatherinamazement—"horribly!Itwasdreadful. Areyouill?Youhavenoideawhatitwas.YouhavenoideawhatIsuffered." 

           Thegirlsmiled. "Dorian,"sheanswered,lingeringoverhisnamewithlong-drawnmusicinhervoice,asthoughitweresweeterthanhoneytotheredpetalsofhermouth —"Dorian,youshouldhaveunderstood.Butyouunderstandnow,don’tyou?" 

           "Understandwhat?"heasked,angrily. 

           "WhyIwassobadto-night.WhyIshallalwaysbebad.WhyIshallneveractwellagain." 

           Heshruggedhisshoulders. "Youareill,Isuppose.Whenyouareillyoushouldn’tact. Youmakeyourselfridiculous.Myfriendswerebored.Iwasbored." 

           Sheseemednottolistentohim.Shewastransfiguredwithjoy.Anecstasyofhappinessdominatedher. 

           "Dorian,Dorian,"shecried,"beforeIknewyou,actingwastheonerealityofmylife. ItwasonlyinthetheatrethatIlived.Ithoughtthatitwasalltrue.