Портрет Доріана Грея

           Itistheconfession,notthepriest,thatgivesusabsolution. WhenDorianhadfinishedtheletter,hefeltthathehadbeenforgiven. 

           Suddenlytherecameaknocktothedoor,andheheardLordHenry’svoiceoutside. "Mydearboy,Imustseeyou. Letmeinatonce. Ican’tbearyourshuttingyourselfuplikethis." 

           Hemadenoansweratfirst,butremainedquitestill. Theknockingstillcontinued,andgrewlouder. Yes,itwasbettertoletLordHenryin, andtoexplaintohimthenewlifehewasgoingtolead, toquarrelwithhimifitbecamenecessarytoquarrel,topartifpartingwasinevitable. Hejumpedup,drewthescreenhastilyacrossthepicture,andunlockedthedoor. 

           "Iamsosorryforitall,Dorian,"saidLordHenry,asheentered. "Butyoumustnotthinktoomuchaboutit." 

           "DoyoumeanaboutSibylVane? "askedthelad. 

           "Yes,ofcourse," answeredLordHenry,sinkingintoachair,andslowlypullingoffhisyellowgloves. "Itisdreadful,fromonepointofview,butitwasnotyourfault. Tellme,didyougobehindandseeher,aftertheplaywasover?" 

           "Yes." 

           "Ifeltsureyouhad. Didyoumakeascenewithher?" 

           "Iwasbrutal,Harry—perfectlybrutal. Butitisallrightnow. Iamnotsorryforanythingthathashappened. Ithastaughtmetoknowmyselfbetter." 

           "Ah,Dorian,Iamsogladyoutakeitinthatway! IwasafraidIwouldfindyouplungedinremorse,andtearingthatnicecurlyhairofyours."