Портрет Доріана Грея

           "Onthewharf?" 

           "Yes." 

           "Thatmad-catissuretobethere. Theywon’thaveherinthisplacenow." 

           Dorianshruggedhisshoulders. "Iamsickofwomenwholoveone. Womenwhohateonearemuchmoreinteresting. Besides,thestuffisbetter." 

           "Muchthesame." 

           "Ilikeitbetter. Comeandhavesomethingtodrink. Imusthavesomething." 

           "Idon’twantanything,"murmuredtheyoungman. 

           "Nevermind." 

           AdrianSingletonroseupwearily,andfollowedDoriantothebar. Ahalf-caste,inaraggedturbanandashabbyulster,grinnedahideousgreetingashethrustabottleofbrandyandtwotumblersinfrontofthem. Thewomensidledup,andbegantochatter. Dorianturnedhisbackonthem,andsaidsomethinginalowvoicetoAdrianSingleton. 

           Acrookedsmile,likeaMalaycrease,writhedacrossthefaceofoneofthewomen. "Weareveryproudto-night,"shesneered. 

           "ForGod’ssakedon’ttalktome,"criedDorian,stampinghisfootontheground. "Whatdoyouwant? Money? Hereitis. Don’tevertalktomeagain." 

           Tworedsparksflashedforamomentinthewoman’ssoddeneyes,thenflickeredout,andleftthemdullandglazed.