Портрет Доріана Грея

           "TheHomeFarm! Gothereatonceandmeetme. Telloneofthegroomstobringmyhorseround. No.Nevermind. I’llgotothestablesmyself. Itwillsavetime." 

           InlessthanaquarterofanhourDorianGraywasgallopingdownthelongavenueashardashecouldgo. Thetreesseemedtosweeppasthiminspectralprocession,andwildshadowstoflingthemselvesacrosshispath. Oncethemareswervedatawhitegate-postandnearlythrewhim. Helashedheracrosstheneckwithhiscrop. Sheclefttheduskyairlikeanarrow. Thestonesflewfromherhoofs. 

           AtlasthereachedtheHomeFarm. Twomenwereloiteringintheyard. Heleaptfromthesaddleandthrewthereinstooneofthem. Inthefartheststablealightwasglimmering. Somethingseemedtotellhimthatthebodywasthere,andhehurriedtothedoor,andputhishanduponthelatch. 

           Therehepausedforamoment,feelingthathewasonthebrinkofadiscoverythatwouldeithermakeormarhislife. Thenhethrustthedooropen,andentered. 

           Onaheapofsackinginthefarcornerwaslyingthedeadbodyofamandressedinacoarseshirtandapairofbluetrousers. Aspottedhandkerchiefhadbeenplacedovertheface. Acoarsecandle,stuckinabottle,sputteredbesideit. 

           DorianGrayshuddered. Hefeltthathiscouldnotbethehandtotakethehandkerchiefaway,andcalledouttooneofthefarm-servantstocometohim.