Портрет Доріана Грея

           Whenthesoundoftheirfootstepshaddiedaway,Dorianlockedthedoor,andputthekeyinhispocket. Hefeltsafenow. Noonewouldeverlookuponthehorriblething. Noeyebuthiswouldeverseehisshame. 

           Onreachingthelibraryhefoundthatitwasjustafterfiveo’clock,andthattheteahadbeenalreadybroughtup. Onalittletableofdarkperfumedwoodthicklyencrustedwithnacre,apresentfromLadyRadley, hisguardian’swife,aprettyprofessionalinvalid,whohadspenttheprecedingwinterinCairo, waslyinganotefromLordHenry,andbesideitwasabookboundinyellowpaper,thecoverslightlytornandtheedgessoiled. AcopyofthethirdeditionofTheSt.James’sGazettehadbeenplacedonthetea-tray. ItwasevidentthatVictorhadreturned. Hewonderedifhehadmetthemeninthehallastheywereleavingthehouse,andhadwormedoutofthemwhattheyhadbeendoing. Hewouldbesuretomissthepicture—hadnodoubtmisseditalready,whilehehadbeenlayingthetea-things. Thescreenhadnotbeensetback,andablankspacewasvisibleonthewall. Perhapssomenighthemightfindhimcreepingupstairsandtryingtoforcethedooroftheroom. Itwasahorriblethingtohaveaspyinone’shouse. Hehadheardofrichmenwhohadbeenblackmailedalltheirlivesbysomeservantwhohadreadaletter, oroverheardaconversation,orpickedupacardwithanaddress,orfoundbeneathapillowawitheredflowerorashredofcrumpledlace. 

           Hesighed,and,havingpouredhimselfoutsometea,openedLordHenry’snote. Itwassimplytosaythathesenthimroundtheeveningpaper,andabookthatmightinteresthim,andthathewouldbeattheclubateight-fifteen. HeopenedTheSt.James’slanguidly,andlookedthroughit. Aredpencil-markonthefifthpagecaughthiseye. Itdrewattentiontothefollowingparagraph:—