Портрет Доріана Грея

           Thesuspensebecameunbearable. Timeseemedtohimtobecrawlingwithfeetoflead,whilehebymonstrouswindswasbeingswepttowardsthejaggededgeofsomeblackcleftofprecipice. Heknewwhatwaswaitingforhimthere; sawitindeed,and,shuddering,crushedwithdankhandshisburninglidsasthoughhewouldhaverobbedtheverybrainofsight,anddriventheeyeballsbackintotheircave. Itwasuseless. Thebrainhaditsownfoodonwhichitbattened,andtheimagination,madegrotesquebyterror,twistedanddistortedasalivingthingbypain,dancedlikesomefoulpuppetonastand,andgrinnedthroughmovingmasks. Then,suddenly,Timestoppedforhim. Yes:thatblind,slow-breathingthingcrawlednomore,andhorriblethoughts,Timebeingdead,racednimblyoninfront,anddraggedahideousfuturefromitsgrave,andshowedittohim. Hestaredatit. Itsveryhorrormadehimstone. 

           Atlastthedooropened,andhisservantentered. Heturnedglazedeyesuponhim. 

           "Mr.Campbell,sir,"saidtheman. 

           Asighofreliefbrokefromhisparchedlips,andthecolourcamebacktohischeeks. 

           "Askhimtocomeinatonce,Francis. "Hefeltthathewashimselfagain. Hismoodofcowardicehadpassedaway. 

           Themanbowed,andretired. InafewmomentsAlanCampbellwalkedin,lookingverysternandratherpale, hispallorbeingintensifiedbyhiscoal-blackhairanddarkeyebrows. 

           "Alan!thisiskindofyou.Ithankyouforcoming."