Портрет Доріана Грея

           Thewindhadblownthefogaway,andtheskywaslikeamonstrouspeacock’stail,starredwithmyriadsofgoldeneyes. Helookeddown,andsawthepolicemangoinghisroundsandflashingthelongbeamofhislanternonthedoorsofthesilenthouses. Thecrimsonspotofaprowlinghansomgleamedatthecorner,andthenvanished. Awomaninaflutteringshawlwascreepingslowlybytherailings,staggeringasshewent. Nowandthenshestopped,andpeeredback. Once,shebegantosinginahoarsevoice. Thepolicemanstrolledoverandsaidsomethingtoher. Shestumbledaway,laughing. AbitterblastsweptacrosstheSquare. Thegas-lampsflickered,andbecameblue,andtheleaflesstreesshooktheirblackironbranchestoandfro. Heshivered,andwentback,closingthewindowbehindhim. 

           Havingreachedthedoor,heturnedthekey,andopenedit. Hedidnotevenglanceatthemurderedman. Hefeltthatthesecretofthewholethingwasnottorealisethesituation. Thefriendwhohadpaintedthefatalportraittowhichallhismiseryhadbeendue,hadgoneoutofhislife. Thatwasenough. 

           Thenherememberedthelamp. ItwasarathercuriousoneofMoorishworkmanship,madeofdullsilverinlaidwitharabesquesofburnishedsteel,andstuddedwithcoarseturquoises. Perhapsitmightbemissedbyhisservant,andquestionswouldbeasked. Hehesitatedforamoment,thenheturnedbackandtookitfromthetable. Hecouldnothelpseeingthedeadthing. Howstillitwas! Howhorriblywhitethelonghandslooked! Itwaslikeadreadfulwaximage. 

           Havinglockedthedoorbehindhim,hecreptquietlydownstairs. Thewoodworkcreaked,andseemedtocryoutasifinpain.