Портрет Дориана Грея

           Hehadalwaysthelookofonewhohadkepthimselfunspottedfromtheworld. MenwhotalkedgrosslybecamesilentwhenDorianGrayenteredtheroom. Therewassomethinginthepurityofhisfacethatrebukedthem. Hismerepresenceseemedtorecalltothemthememoryoftheinnocencethattheyhadtarnished. Theywonderedhowonesocharmingandgracefulashewascouldhaveescapedthestainofanagethatwasatoncesordidandsensual. 

           Often,onreturninghomefromoneofthosemysteriousandprolongedabsencesthatgaverisetosuchstrangeconjectureamongthosewhowerehisfriends,orthoughtthattheywereso,hehimselfwouldcreepupstairstothelockedroom,openthedoorwiththekeythatneverlefthimnow,andstand,withamirror,infrontoftheportraitthatBasilHallwardhadpaintedofhim,lookingnowattheevilandageingfaceonthecanvas,andnowatthefairyoungfacethatlaughedbackathimfromthepolishedglass. Theverysharpnessofthecontrastusedtoquickenhissenseofpleasure. Hegrewmoreandmoreenamouredofhisownbeauty,moreandmoreinterestedinthecorruptionofhisownsoul. Hewouldexaminewithminutecare,andsometimeswithamonstrousandterribledelight,thehideouslinesthatsearedthewrinklingforehead,orcrawledaroundtheheavysensualmouth,wonderingsometimeswhichwerethemorehorrible,thesignsofsinorthesignsofage. Hewouldplacehiswhitehandsbesidethecoarsebloatedhandsofthepicture,andsmile. Hemockedthemisshapenbodyandthefailinglimbs.