ed。　he　wondered　if　he　had　met　the　men　in　the　hall　as　they　were　leaving　the　house　and　had　wormed　out　of　them　what　they　had　been　doing。　he　would　be　sure　to　miss　the　picturehad　no　doubt　missed　it　already；　while　he　had　been　laying　the　tea…things。　the　screen　had　not　been　set　back；　and　a　blank　space　was　visible　on　the　wall。　perhaps　some　night　he　might　find　him　creeping　upstairs　and　trying　to　force　the　door　of　the　room。　it　was　a　horrible　thing　to　have　a　spy　in　ones　house。　he　had　heard　of　rich　men　who　had　been　blackmailed　all　their　lives　by　some　servant　who　had　read　a　letter；　or　overheard　a　conversation；　or　picked　up　a　card　with　an　address；　or　found　beneath　a　pillow　a　withered　flower　or　a　shred　of　crumpled　lace。
  he　sighed；　and　having　poured　himself　out　some　tea；　opened　lord　henrys　note。　it　was　simply　to　say　that　he　sent　him　round　the　evening　paper；　and　a　book　that　might　interest　him；　and　that　he　would　be　at　the　club　at　eight…fifteen。　he　opened　the　st。　jamess　languidly；　and　looked　through　it。　a　red　pencil…mark　on　the　fifth　page　caught　his　eye。　it　drew　attention　to　the　following　paragraph：
  inquest　on　an　actress。an　inquest　was　held　this　morning　at　the　bell　tavern；　hoxton　road；　by　mr。　danby；　the　district　coroner；　on　the　body　of　sibyl　vane；　a　young　actress　recently　engaged　at　the　royal　theatre；　holborn。　a　verdict　of　death　by　misadventure　was　returned。　considerable　sympathy　was　expressed　for　the　mother　of　the　deceased；　who　was　greatly　affected　during　the　giving　of　her　own　evidence；　and　that　of　dr。　birrell；　who　had　made　the　post…mortem　examination　of　the　deceased。
  he　frowned；　and　tearing　the　paper　in　two；　went　across　the　room　and　flung　the　pieces　away。　how　ugly　it　all　was！　and　how　horribly　real　ugliness　made　things！　he　felt　a　little　annoyed　with　lord　henry　for　having　sent　him　the　report。　and　it　was　certainly　stupid　of　him　to　have　marked　it　with　red　pencil。　victor　might　have　read　it。　the　man　knew　more　than　enough　english　for　that。
  perhaps　he　had　read　it　and　had　begun　to　suspect　something。　and；　yet；　what　did　it　matter？　what　had　dorian　gray　to　do　with　sibyl　vanes　death？　there　was　nothing　to　fear。　dorian　gray　had　not　killed　her。
  his　eye　fell　on　the　yellow　book　that　lord　henry　had　sent　him。　what　was　it；　he　wondered。　he　went　towards　the　little；　pearl…coloured　octagonal　stand　that　had　always　looked　to　him　like　the　work　of　some　strange　egyptian　bees　that　wrought　in　silver；　and　taking　up　the　volume；　flung　himself　into　an　arm…chair　and　began　to　turn　over　the　leaves。　after　a　few　minutes　he　became　absorbed。　it　was　the　strangest　book　that　he　had　ever　read。　it　seemed　to　him　that　in　exquisite　raiment；　and　to　the　delicate　sound　of　flutes；　the　sins　of　the　world　were　passing　in　dumb　show　before　him。　things　that　he　had　dimly　dreamed　of　were　suddenly　made　real　to　him。　things　of　which　he　had　never　dreamed　were　gradually　revealed。
  it　was　a　novel　without　a　plot　and　with　only　one　character；　being；　indeed；　simply　a　psychological　study　of　a　certain　young　parisian　who　spent　his　life　trying　to　realize　in　the　nineteenth　century　all　the　passions　and　modes　of　thought　that　belonged　to　every　century　except　his　own；　and　to　sum　up；　as　it　were；　in　himself　the　various　moods　through　which　the　world…spirit　had　ever　passed；　loving　for　their　mere　artificiality　those　renunciations　that　men　have　unwisely　called　virtue；　as　much　as　those　natural　rebellions　that　wise　men　still　call　sin。　the　style　in　which　it　was　written　was　that　curious　jewelled　style；　vivid　and　obscure　at　once；　full　of　argot　and　of　archaisms；　of　technical　expressions　and　of　elaborate　paraphrases；　that　characterizes　the　work　of　some　of　the　finest　artists　of　the　french　school　of　symbolistes。　there　were　in　it　metaphors　as　monstrous　as　orchids　and　as　subtle　in　colour。　the　life　of　the　senses　was　described　in　the　terms　of　mystical　philosophy。　one　hardly　knew　at　times　whether　one　was　reading　the　spiritual　ecstasies　of　some　mediaeval　saint　or　the　morbid　confessions　of　a　modern　sinner。　it　was　a　poisonous　book。　the　heavy　odour　of　incense　seemed　to　cling　about　its　pages　and　to　trouble　the　brain。　the　mere　cadence　of　the　sentences；　the　subtle　monotony　of　their　music；　so　full　as　it　was　of　plex　refrains　and　movements　elaborately　repeated；　produced　in　the　mind　of　the　lad；　as　he　passed　from　chapter　to　chapter；　a　form　of　reverie；　a　malady　of　dreaming；　that　made　him　unconscious　of　the　falling　day　and　creeping　shadows。
  cloudless；　and　pierced　by　one　solitary　star；　a　copper…green　sky　gleamed　through　the　windows。　he　read　on　by　its　wan　light　till　he　could　read　no　more。　then；　after　his　valet　had　reminded　him　several　times　of　the　lateness　of　the　hour；　he　got　up；　and　going　into　the　next　room；　placed　the　book　on　the　little　florentine　table　that　always　stood　at　his　bedside　and　began　to　dress　for　dinner。
  it　was　almost　nine　oclock　before　he　reached　the　club；　where　he　found　lord　henry　sitting　alone；　in　the　morning…room；　looking　very　much　bored。
  〃i　am　so　sorry；　harry；〃　he　cried；　〃but　really　it　is　entirely　your　fault。　that　book　you　sent　me　so　fascinated　me　that　i　forgot　how　the　time　was　going。〃
  〃yes；　i　thought　you　would　like　it；〃　replied　his　host；　rising　from　his　chair。
  〃i　didnt　say　i　liked　it；　harry。　i　said　it　fascinated　me。　there　is　a　great　difference。〃
  〃ah；　you　have　discovered　that？〃　murmured　lord　henry。　and　they　passed　into　the　dining…room。
  。；
  Chapter　11
  銆€灏忥伎璇础　xt　澶爞
  chapter　11
  for　years；　dorian　gray　could　not　free　himself　from　the　influence　of　this　book。　or　perhaps　it　would　be　more　accurate　to　say　that　he　never　sought　to　free　himself　from　it。　he　procured　from　paris　no　less　than　nine　large…paper　copies　of　the　first　edition；　and　had　them　bound　in　different　colours；　so　that　they　might　suit　his　various　moods　and　the　changing　fancies　of　a　nature　over　which　he　seemed；　at　times；　to　have　almost　entirely　lost　control。　the　hero；　the　wonderful　young　parisian　in　whom　the　romantic　and　the　scientific　temperaments　were　so　strangely　blended；　became　to　him　a　kind　of　prefiguring　type　of　himself。　and；　indeed；　the　whole　book　seemed　to　him　to　contain　the　story　of　his　own　life；　written　before　he　had　lived　it。
  in　one　point　he　was　more　fortunate　than　the　novels　fantastic　hero。　he　never　knewnever；　indeed；　had　any　cause　to　knowthat　somewhat　grotesque　dread　of　mirrors；　and　polished　metal　surfaces；　and　still　water　which　came　upon　the　young　parisian　so　early　in　his　life；　and　was　occasioned　by　the　sudden　decay　of　a　beau　that　had　once；　apparently；　been　so　remarkable。　it　was　with　an　almost　cruel　joy　and　perhaps　in　nearly　every　joy；　as　certainly　in　every　pleasure；　cruelty　has　its　placethat　he　used　to　read　the　latter　part　of　the　book；　with　its　really　tragic；　if　somewhat　overemphasized；　account　of　the　sorrow　and　despair　of　one　who　had　himself　lost　what　in　others；　and　the　world；　he　had　most　dearly　valued。
  for　the　wonderful　beauty　that　had　so　fascinated　basil　hallward；　and　many　others　besides　him；　seemed　never　to　leave　him。　even　those　who　had　heard　the　most　evil　things　against　him　and　from　time　to　time　strange　rumours　about　his　mode　of　life　crept　through　london　and　became　the　chatter　of　the　clubs　could　not　believe　anything　to　his　dishonour　when　they　saw　him。　he　had　always　the　look　of　one　who　had　kept　himself　unspotted　from　the　world。　men　who　talked　grossly　became　silent　when　dorian　gray　entered　the　room。　there　was　something　in　the　purity　of　his　face　that　rebuked　them。　his　mere　presence　seemed　to　recall　to　them　the　memory　of　the　innocence　that　they　had　tarnished。　they　wondered　how　one　so　charming　and　graceful　as　he　was　could　have　escaped　the　stain　of　an　age　that　was　at　once　sordid　and　sensual。
  often；　on　returning　home　from　one　of　those　mysterious　and　prolonged　absences　that　gave　rise　to　such　strange　conjecture　among　those　who　were　his　friends；　or　thought　that　they　were　so；　he　himself　would　creep　upstairs　to　the　locked　room；　open　the　door　with　the　key　that　never　left　him　now；　and　stand；　with　a　mirror；　in　front　of　the　portrait　that　basil　hallward　had　painted　of　him；　looking　now　at　the　evil　and　aging　face　on　the　canvas；　and　now　at　the　fair　young　face　that　laughed　back　at　him　from　the　polished　glass。　the　very　sharpness　of　the　contrast　used　to　quicken　his　sense　of　pleasure。　he　grew　more　and　more　enamoured　of　his　own　beauty；　more　and　more　interested　in　the　corruption　of　his　own　soul。　he　would　examine　with　minute　care；　and　sometimes　with　a　monstrous　and　terrible　delight；　the　hideous　lines　that　seared　the　wrinkling　forehead　or　crawled　around　the　heavy　sensual　mouth；　wondering　sometimes　which　were　the　more　horrible；　the　signs　of　sin　or　the　signs　of　age。　he　would　place　his　white　hands　beside　the　coarse　bloated　hands　of　the　picture；　and　smile。　he　mocked　the　misshapen　body　and　the　failing　limbs。
  there　were　moments；　indeed；　at　night；　when；　lying　sleepless　in　his　own　delicately　scented　chamber；　or　in　the　sordid　room　of　the　little　ill…famed　tavern　near　the　docks　which；　under　an　assumed　name　and　in　disguise；　it　was　his　habit　to　frequent；　he　would　think　of　the　ruin　he　had　brought　upon　his　soul　with　a　pity　that　was　all　the　more　poignant　because　it　was　purely　selfish。　but　moments　such　as　these　were　rare。　that　curiosity　about　life　which　lord　henry　had　first　stirred　in　him；　as　they　sat　together　in　the　garden　of　their　friend；　seemed　to　incr