Портрет Доріана Грея

           Forafewmomentsheloitereduponthedoorstep,lookingroundatthesilentSquarewithitsblank,close-shutteredwindows,anditsstaringblinds. Theskywaspureopalnow,andtheroofsofthehousesglistenedlikesilveragainstit. Fromsomechimneyoppositeathinwreathofsmokewasrising.Itcurled,avioletriband,throughthenacre-colouredair. 

           InthehugegiltVenetianlantern,spoilofsomeDoge’sbarge,thathungfromtheceilingofthegreatoak-panelledhallofentrance,lightswerestillburningfromthreeflickeringjets: thinbluepetalsofflametheyseemed,rimmedwithwhitefire. Heturnedthemout,and,havingthrownhishatandcapeonthetable,passedthroughthelibrarytowardsthedoorofhisbedroom, alargeoctagonalchamberonthegroundfloorthat,inhisnew-bornfeelingforluxury,hehadjusthaddecoratedforhimself, andhungwithsomecuriousRenaissancetapestriesthathadbeendiscoveredstoredinadisusedatticatSelbyRoyal. Ashewasturningthehandleofthedoor,hiseyefellupontheportraitBasilHallwardhadpaintedofhim. Hestartedbackasifinsurprise.Thenhewentonintohisownroom,lookingsomewhatpuzzled. Afterhehadtakenthebuttonholeoutofhiscoat,heseemedtohesitate. Finallyhecameback,wentovertothepicture,andexaminedit. Inthedimarrestedlightthatstruggledthroughthecream-colouredsilkblinds,thefaceappearedtohimtobealittlechanged. Theexpressionlookeddifferent.Onewouldhavesaidthattherewasatouchofcrueltyinthemouth.Itwascertainlystrange. 

           Heturnedround,and,walkingtothewindow,drewuptheblind. Thebrightdawnfloodedtheroom,andsweptthefantasticshadowsintoduskycorners,wheretheylayshuddering. Butthestrangeexpressionthathehadnoticedinthefaceoftheportraitseemedtolingerthere,tobemoreintensifiedeven.