Портрет Доріана Грея

           Atthecornerofthepine-woodhecaughtsightofSirGeoffreyClouston,theDuchess’sbrother,jerkingtwospentcartridgesoutofhisgun. Hejumpedfromthecart,andhavingtoldthegroomtotakethemarehome,madehiswaytowardshisguestthroughthewitheredbrackenandroughundergrowth. 

           "Haveyouhadgoodsport,Geoffrey? "heasked. 

           "Notverygood,Dorian. Ithinkmostofthebirdshavegonetotheopen. Idaresayitwillbebetterafterlunch,whenwegettonewground." 

           Dorianstrolledalongbyhisside. Thekeenaromaticair,thebrownandredlightsthatglimmeredinthewood, thehoarsecriesofthebeatersringingoutfromtimetotime,andthesharpsnapsofthegunsthatfollowed,fascinatedhim,andfilledhimwithasenseofdelightfulfreedom. Hewasdominatedbythecarelessnessofhappiness,bythehighindifferenceofjoy. 

           Suddenlyfromalumpytussockofoldgrass,sometwentyyardsinfrontofthem,withblack-tippedearserect,andlonghinderlimbsthrowingitforward,startedahare. Itboltedforathicketofalders. SirGeoffreyputhisguntohisshoulder,buttherewassomethingintheanimal’sgraceofmovementthatstrangelycharmedDorianGray,andhecriedoutatonce,"Don’tshootit,Geoffrey. Letitlive." 

           "Whatnonsense,Dorian! "laughedhiscompanion,andasthehareboundedintothethickethefired. Thereweretwocriesheard,thecryofahareinpain,whichisdreadful,thecryofamaninagony,whichisworse. 

           "Goodheavens! Ihavehitabeater! "exclaimedSirGeoffrey. "Whatanassthemanwastogetinfrontoftheguns! Stopshootingthere! "hecalledoutatthetopofhisvoice. "Amanishurt."