Портрет Доріана Грея

           Heheavedadeepbreath,andhisnostrilsquiveredwithpleasure. Whenheentered,ayoungmanwithsmoothyellowhair,whowasbendingoveralamp,lightingalongthinpipe,lookedupathim,andnoddedinahesitatingmanner. 

           "Youhere,Adrian?"mutteredDorian. 

           "WhereelseshouldIbe?"heanswered,listlessly. "Noneofthechapswillspeaktomenow." 

           "IthoughtyouhadleftEngland." 

           "Darlingtonisnotgoingtodoanything. Mybrotherpaidthebillatlast. Georgedoesn’tspeaktomeeither.... Idon’tcare,"headded,withasigh. "Aslongasonehasthisstuff,onedoesn’twantfriends. IthinkIhavehadtoomanyfriends." 

           Dorianwinced,andlookedroundatthegrotesquethingsthatlayinsuchfantasticposturesontheraggedmattresses. Thetwistedlimbs,thegapingmouths,thestaringlustrelesseyes,fascinatedhim. Heknewinwhatstrangeheavenstheyweresuffering,andwhatdullhellswereteachingthemthesecretofsomenewjoy. Theywerebetteroffthanhewas. Hewasprisonedinthought. Memory,likeahorriblemalady,waseatinghissoulaway. FromtimetotimeheseemedtoseetheeyesofBasilHallwardlookingathim. Yethefelthecouldnotstay. ThepresenceofAdrianSingletontroubledhim. Hewantedtobewherenoonewouldknowwhohewas. Hewantedtoescapefromhimself. 

           "Iamgoingontotheotherplace,"hesaid,afterapause.