Портрет Доріана Грея

           "Eighteenyears,"saidtheman. "Whydoyouaskme? Whatdoyearsmatter?" 

           "Eighteenyears,"laughedDorianGray,withatouchoftriumphinhisvoice. "Eighteenyears! Setmeunderthelampandlookatmyface!" 

           JamesVanehesitatedforamoment,notunderstandingwhatwasmeant. ThenheseizedDorianGrayanddraggedhimfromthearchway. 

           Dimandwaveringaswasthewind-blownlight,yetitservedtoshowhimthehideouserror,asitseemed,intowhichhehadfallen, forthefaceofthemanhehadsoughttokillhadallthebloomofboyhood,alltheunstainedpurityofyouth. Heseemedlittlemorethanaladoftwentysummers,hardlyolder,ifolderindeedatall,thanhissisterhadbeenwhentheyhadpartedsomanyyearsago. Itwasobviousthatthiswasnotthemanwhohaddestroyedherlife. 

           Heloosenedhisholdandreeledback. "MyGod!myGod!"hecried, "andIwouldhavemurderedyou!" 

           DorianGraydrewalongbreath. "Youhavebeenonthebrinkofcommittingaterriblecrime,myman,"hesaid,lookingathimsternly. "Letthisbeawarningtoyounottotakevengeanceintoyourownhands." 

           "Forgiveme,sir,"mutteredJamesVane. "Iwasdeceived. AchancewordIheardinthatdamneddensetmeonthewrongtrack." 

           "Youhadbettergohome,andputthatpistolaway,oryoumaygetintotrouble,"saidDorian,turningonhisheel,andgoingslowlydownthestreet.