Портрет Доріана Грея
Chapter 7
"Dorian,"hesaid,"myletter —don’tbefrightened —wastotellyouthatSibylVaneisdead."
Acryofpainbrokefromthelad’slips, andheleapedtohisfeet,tearinghishandsawayfromLordHenry’sgrasp. "Dead! Sibyldead! Itisnottrue! Itisahorriblelie! Howdareyousayit?"
"Itisquitetrue,Dorian,"saidLordHenry,gravely. "Itisinallthemorningpapers. IwrotedowntoyoutoaskyounottoseeanyonetillIcame. Therewillhavetobeaninquest,ofcourse,andyoumustnotbemixedupinit. ThingslikethatmakeamanfashionableinParis. ButinLondonpeoplearesoprejudiced. Here,oneshouldnevermakeone’sdébutwithascandal. Oneshouldreservethattogiveaninteresttoone’soldage. Isupposetheydon’tknowyournameatthetheatre? Iftheydon’t,itisallright. Didanyoneseeyougoingroundtoherroom? Thatisanimportantpoint."
Doriandidnotanswerforafewmoments. Hewasdazedwithhorror. Finallyhestammeredinastifledvoice,"Harry,didyousayaninquest? Whatdidyoumeanbythat? DidSibyl——? Oh,Harry,Ican’tbearit! Butbequick. Tellmeeverythingatonce."
"Ihavenodoubtitwasnotanaccident,Dorian,thoughitmustbeputinthatwaytothepublic. Itseemsthatasshewasleavingthetheatrewithhermother,abouthalf-pasttwelveorso,shesaidshehadforgottensomethingupstairs. Theywaitedsometimeforher,butshedidnotcomedownagain. Theyultimatelyfoundherlyingdeadonthefloorofherdressing-room. Shehadswallowedsomethingbymistake,somedreadfulthingtheyuseattheatres. Idon’tknowwhatitwas,butithadeitherprussicacidorwhiteleadinit.
