Портрет Доріана Грея

           Theywalkedontilltheymetapoliceman,andbroughthimback. Themanrangthebellseveraltimes,buttherewasnoanswer. Exceptforalightinoneofthetopwindows,thehousewasalldark. Afteratime,hewentawayandstoodinanadjoiningporticoandwatched. 

           "Whosehouseisthat,constable?"askedtheelderofthetwogentlemen. 

           "Mr.DorianGray’s,sir,"answeredthepoliceman. 

           Theylookedateachother,astheywalkedawayandsneered.OneofthemwasSirHenryAshton’suncle. 

           Inside,intheservants’partofthehouse,thehalf-claddomesticsweretalkinginlowwhisperstoeachother. OldMrs.Leafwascryingandwringingherhands.Franciswasaspaleasdeath. 

           Afteraboutaquarterofanhour,hegotthecoachmanandoneofthefootmenandcreptupstairs. Theyknocked,buttherewasnoreply.Theycalledout. Everythingwasstill.Finally,aftervainlytryingtoforcethedoor,theygotontheroof,anddroppeddownontothebalcony. Thewindowsyieldedeasily;theirboltswereold. 

           Whentheyenteredtheyfound,hanginguponthewall,asplendidportraitoftheirmasterastheyhadlastseenhim,inallthewonderofhisexquisiteyouthandbeauty. Lyingonthefloorwasadeadman,ineveningdress,withaknifeinhisheart. Hewaswithered,wrinkled,andloathsomeofvisage. Itwasnottilltheyhadexaminedtheringsthattheyrecognisedwhoitwas.