Портрет Доріана Грея

           "YouwenttotheOpera? "saidHallward,speakingveryslowly,andwithastrainedtouchofpaininhisvoice. "YouwenttotheOperawhileSibylVanewaslyingdeadinsomesordidlodging? Youcantalktomeofotherwomenbeingcharming,andofPattisingingdivinely,beforethegirlyoulovedhaseventhequietofagravetosleepin? Why,man,therearehorrorsinstoreforthatlittlewhitebodyofhers!" 

           "Stop,Basil! Iwon’thearit! "criedDorian,leapingtohisfeet. "Youmustnottellmeaboutthings. Whatisdoneisdone. Whatispastispast." 

           "Youcallyesterdaythepast?" 

           "Whathastheactuallapseoftimegottodowithit? Itisonlyshallowpeoplewhorequireyearstogetridofanemotion. Amanwhoismasterofhimselfcanendasorrowaseasilyashecaninventapleasure. Idon’twanttobeatthemercyofmyemotions. Iwanttousethem,toenjoythem,andtodominatethem." 

           "Dorian,thisishorrible! Somethinghaschangedyoucompletely. Youlookexactlythesamewonderfulboywho,dayafterday,usedtocomedowntomystudiotositforhispicture. Butyouweresimple,natural,andaffectionatethen. Youwerethemostunspoiledcreatureinthewholeworld. Now,Idon’tknowwhathascomeoveryou. Youtalkasifyouhadnoheart,nopityinyou. ItisallHarry’sinfluence. Iseethat." 

           Theladflushedup,and,goingtothewindow,lookedoutforafewmomentsonthegreen,flickering,sun-lashedgarden. "IoweagreatdealtoHarry,Basil,"hesaid,atlast—"morethanIowetoyou. Youonlytaughtmetobevain."