Портрет Доріана Грея

           Ithasbeenacharmingevening,andwemustenditcharmingly. ThereissomeoneatWhite’swhowantsimmenselytoknowyou—youngLordPoole,Bournemouth’seldestson. Hehasalreadycopiedyourneckties,andhasbeggedmetointroducehimtoyou. Heisquitedelightful,andratherremindsmeofyou." 

           "Ihopenot,"saidDorian,withasadlookinhiseyes. "ButIamtiredto-night,Harry. Ishan’tgototheclub. Itisnearlyeleven,andIwanttogotobedearly." 

           "Dostay. Youhaveneverplayedsowellasto-night. Therewassomethinginyourtouchthatwaswonderful.IthadmoreexpressionthanIhadeverheardfromitbefore." 

           "ItisbecauseIamgoingtobegood,"heanswered,smiling,"Iamalittlechangedalready." 

           "Youcannotchangetome,Dorian,"saidLordHenry. "YouandIwillalwaysbefriends." 

           "Yetyoupoisonedmewithabookonce. Ishouldnotforgivethat. Harry,promisemethatyouwillneverlendthatbooktoanyone. Itdoesharm." 

           "Mydearboy,youarereallybeginningtomoralise. Youwillsoonbegoingaboutliketheconverted,andtherevivalist,warningpeopleagainstallthesinsofwhichyouhavegrowntired. Youaremuchtoodelightfultodothat. Besides,itisnouse. YouandIarewhatweare,andwillbewhatwewillbe. Asforbeingpoisonedbyabook,thereisnosuchthingasthat. Arthasnoinfluenceuponaction. Itannihilatesthedesiretoact.