Портрет Доріана Грея

           "Well,Iampunishedforthat,Dorian—orshallbesomeday." 

           "Idon’tknowwhatyoumean,Basil,"heexclaimed,turninground. "Idon’tknowwhatyouwant. Whatdoyouwant?" 

           "IwanttheDorianGrayIusedtopaint,"saidtheartist,sadly. 

           "Basil,"saidthelad,goingovertohim,andputtinghishandonhisshoulder,"youhavecometoolate. YesterdaywhenIheardthatSibylVanehadkilledherself——" 

           "Killedherself! Goodheavens! istherenodoubtaboutthat? "criedHallward,lookingupathimwithanexpressionofhorror. 

           "MydearBasil! Surelyyoudon’tthinkitwasavulgaraccident? Ofcourseshekilledherself." 

           Theeldermanburiedhisfaceinhishands. "Howfearful,"hemuttered,andashudderranthroughhim. 

           "No,"saidDorianGray,"thereisnothingfearfulaboutit. Itisoneofthegreatromantictragediesoftheage. Asarule,peoplewhoactleadthemostcommonplacelives. Theyaregoodhusbands,orfaithfulwives,orsomethingtedious. YouknowwhatImean—middle-classvirtue,andallthatkindofthing. HowdifferentSibylwas! Shelivedherfinesttragedy. Shewasalwaysaheroine. Thelastnightsheplayed—thenightyousawher—sheactedbadlybecauseshehadknowntherealityoflove. Whensheknewitsunreality,shedied,asJulietmighthavedied. Shepassedagainintothesphereofart.