Портрет Доріана Грея

           LordHenry’scasualquestioninghadmadehimlosehisnervesforthemoment,andhewantedhisnervestill. Thingsthatweredangeroushadtobedestroyed. Hewinced. Hehatedtheideaofeventouchingthem. 

           Yetithadtobedone. Herealisedthat,andwhenhehadlockedthedoorofhislibrary,heopenedthesecretpressintowhichhehadthrustBasilHallward’scoatandbag. Ahugefirewasblazing. Hepiledanotherlogonit. Thesmellofthesingeingclothesandburningleatherwashorrible. Ittookhimthree-quartersofanhourtoconsumeeverything. Attheendhefeltfaintandsick, andhavinglitsomeAlgerianpastillesinapiercedcopperbrazier,hebathedhishandsandforeheadwithacoolmusk-scentedvinegar. 

           Suddenlyhestarted.Hiseyesgrewstrangelybright,andhegnawednervouslyathisunder-lip. BetweentwoofthewindowsstoodalargeFlorentinecabinet,madeoutofebony,andinlaidwithivoryandbluelapis. Hewatcheditasthoughitwereathingthatcouldfascinateandmakeafraid,asthoughitheldsomethingthathelongedforandyetalmostloathed. Hisbreathquickened.Amadcravingcameoverhim. Helitacigaretteandthenthrewitaway. Hiseyelidsdroopedtillthelongfringedlashesalmosttouchedhischeek. Buthestillwatchedthecabinet. Atlasthegotupfromthesofaonwhichhehadbeenlying,wentovertoit,and,havingunlockedit,touchedsomehiddenspring. Atriangulardrawerpassedslowlyout. Hisfingersmovedinstinctivelytowardsit,dippedin,andclosedonsomething. ItwasasmallChineseboxofblackandgold-dustlacquer,elaboratelywrought,thesidespatternedwithcurvedwaves, andthesilkencordshungwithroundcrystalsandtasselledinplaitedmetalthreads. Heopenedit. Insidewasagreenpaste,waxyinlustre,theodourcuriouslyheavyandpersistent.