Портрет Доріана Грея

           "Itisnothingtome. Idon’trequireyou,"saidCampbell,coldly. 

           Dorianhalfopenedthedoor. Ashedidso,hesawthefaceofhisportraitleeringinthesunlight. Onthefloorinfrontofitthetorncurtainwaslying. Herememberedthat,thenightbeforehehadforgotten,forthefirsttimeinhislife,tohidethefatalcanvas,andwasabouttorushforward,whenhedrewbackwithashudder. 

           Whatwasthatloathsomereddewthatgleamed,wetandglistening,ononeofthehands,asthoughthecanvashadsweatedblood? Howhorribleitwas! —morehorrible,itseemedtohimforthemoment,thanthesilentthingthatheknewwasstretchedacrossthetable, thethingwhosegrotesquemisshapenshadowonthespottedcarpetshowedhimthatithadnotstirred,butwasstillthere,ashehadleftit. 

           Heheavedadeepbreath,openedthedooralittlewider,andwithhalf-closedeyesandavertedheadwalkedquicklyin,determinedthathewouldnotlookevenonceuponthedeadman. Then,stoopingdown,andtakingupthegoldandpurplehanging,heflungitrightoverthepicture. 

           Therehestopped,feelingafraidtoturnround,andhiseyesfixedthemselvesontheintricaciesofthepatternbeforehim. HeheardCampbellbringingintheheavychest,andtheirons,andtheotherthingsthathehadrequiredforhisdreadfulwork. HebegantowonderifheandBasilHallwardhadevermet,and,ifso,whattheyhadthoughtofeachother. 

           "Leavemenow,"saidasternvoicebehindhim. 

           Heturnedandhurriedout,justconsciousthatthedeadmanhadbeenthrustbackintothechair,andthatCampbellwasgazingintoaglisteningyellowface.