Портрет Доріана Грея

           Thequivering,ardentsunlightshowedhimthelinesofcrueltyroundthemouthasclearlyasifhehadbeenlookingintoamirrorafterhehaddonesomedreadfulthing. 

           Hewinced,and,takingupfromthetableanovalglassframedinivoryCupids,oneofLordHenry’smanypresentstohim,glancedhurriedlyintoitspolisheddepths. Nolinelikethatwarpedhisredlips. Whatdiditmean? 

           Herubbedhiseyes,andcameclosetothepicture,andexamineditagain. Therewerenosignsofanychangewhenhelookedintotheactualpainting,andyettherewasnodoubtthatthewholeexpressionhadaltered. Itwasnotamerefancyofhisown. Thethingwashorriblyapparent. 

           Hethrewhimselfintoachair,andbegantothink. SuddenlythereflashedacrosshismindwhathehadsaidinBasilHallward’sstudiothedaythepicturehadbeenfinished. Yes,heremembereditperfectly. Hehadutteredamadwishthathehimselfmightremainyoung,andtheportraitgrowold; thathisownbeautymightbeuntarnished,andthefaceonthecanvasbeartheburdenofhispassionsandhissins; thatthepaintedimagemightbesearedwiththelinesofsufferingandthought,andthathemightkeepallthedelicatebloomandlovelinessofhisthenjustconsciousboyhood. Surelyhiswishhadnotbeenfulfilled? Suchthingswereimpossible. Itseemedmonstrouseventothinkofthem. And,yet,therewasthepicturebeforehim,withthetouchofcrueltyinthemouth. 

           Cruelty! Hadhebeencruel? Itwasthegirl’sfault,nothis. Hehaddreamedofherasagreatartist,hadgivenhislovetoherbecausehehadthoughthergreat. Thenshehaddisappointedhim.