Портрет Доріана Грея

           "Youspoilmylifeasanartistbyrefusing,Dorian. Nomancameacrosstwoidealthings. Fewcomeacrossone." 

           "Ican’texplainittoyou,Basil,butImustneversittoyouagain. Thereissomethingfatalaboutaportrait. Ithasalifeofitsown. Iwillcomeandhaveteawithyou. Thatwillbejustaspleasant." 

           "Pleasanterforyou,Iamafraid,"murmuredHallward,regretfully. "Andnowgood-bye. Iamsorryyouwon’tletmelookatthepictureonceagain. Butthatcan’tbehelped. Iquiteunderstandwhatyoufeelaboutit." 

           Ashelefttheroom,DorianGraysmiledtohimself. PoorBasil! howlittleheknewofthetruereason! Andhowstrangeitwasthat,insteadofhavingbeenforcedtorevealhisownsecret,hehadsucceeded,almostbychance,inwrestingasecretfromhisfriend! Howmuchthatstrangeconfessionexplainedtohim! Thepainter’sabsurdfitsofjealousy,hiswilddevotion,hisextravagantpanegyrics,hiscuriousreticences—heunderstoodthemallnow,andhefeltsorry. Thereseemedtohimtobesomethingtragicinafriendshipsocolouredbyromance. 

           Hesighed,andtouchedthebell. Theportraitmustbehiddenawayatallcosts. Hecouldnotrunsuchariskofdiscoveryagain. Ithadbeenmadofhimtohaveallowedthethingtoremain,evenforanhour,inaroomtowhichanyofhisfriendshadaccess.