Портрет Доріана Грея

           Hewalkedupanddowntheroomtwoorthreetimes. Thenheturnedtothestillfigureinthechair. "Mother,aremythingsready?"heasked. "Quiteready,James,"sheanswered,keepinghereyesonherwork. Forsomemonthspastshehadfeltillateasewhenshewasalonewiththisrough,sternsonofhers. Hershallowsecretnaturewastroubledwhentheireyesmet. Sheusedtowonderifhesuspectedanything. Thesilence,forhemadenootherobservation,becameintolerabletoher. Shebegantocomplain. Womendefendthemselvesbyattacking,justastheyattackbysuddenandstrangesurrenders. "Ihopeyouwillbecontented,James,withyoursea-faringlife,"shesaid. "Youmustrememberthatitisyourownchoice.Youmighthaveenteredasolicitor’soffice. Solicitorsareaveryrespectableclass,andinthecountryoftendinewiththebestfamilies." 

           "Ihateoffices,andIhateclerks,"hereplied."Butyouarequiteright. Ihavechosenmyownlife.AllIsayis,watchoverSibyl. Don’tlethercometoanyharm.Mother,youmustwatchoverher." 

           "James,youreallytalkverystrangely.OfcourseIwatchoverSibyl." 

           "Ihearagentlemancomeseverynighttothetheatre,andgoesbehindtotalktoher. Isthatright?Whataboutthat?" 

           "Youarespeakingaboutthingsyoudon’tunderstand,James. Intheprofessionweareaccustomedtoreceiveagreatdealofmostgratifyingattention. Imyselfusedtoreceivemanybouquetsatonetime.Thatwaswhenactingwasreallyunderstood. AsforSibyl,Idonotknowatpresentwhetherherattachmentisseriousornot. Butthereisnodoubtthattheyoungmaninquestionisaperfectgentleman.