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- Портрет Дориана Грея
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- Стр. 68/164
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The
girl
grew
white
,
and
trembled
.
She
clenched
her
hands
together
,
and
her
voice
seemed
to
catch
in
her
throat
.
"
You
are
not
serious
,
Dorian
?
"
she
murmured
.
"
You
are
acting
.
"
"
Acting
!
I
leave
that
to
you
.
You
do
it
so
well
,
"
he
answered
bitterly
.
She
rose
from
her
knees
,
and
,
with
a
piteous
expression
of
pain
in
her
face
,
came
across
the
room
to
him
.
She
put
her
hand
upon
his
arm
,
and
looked
into
his
eyes
.
He
thrust
her
back
.
"
Do
n't
touch
me
!
"
he
cried
.
A
low
moan
broke
from
her
,
and
she
flung
herself
at
his
feet
,
and
lay
there
like
a
trampled
flower
.
"
Dorian
,
Dorian
,
do
n't
leave
me
!
"
she
whispered
.
"
I
am
so
sorry
I
did
n't
act
well
.
I
was
thinking
of
you
all
the
time
.
But
I
will
try
--
indeed
,
I
will
try
.
It
came
so
suddenly
across
me
,
my
love
for
you
.
I
think
I
should
never
have
known
it
if
you
had
not
kissed
me
--
if
we
had
not
kissed
each
other
.
Kiss
me
again
,
my
love
.
Do
n't
go
away
from
me
.
I
could
n't
bear
it
.
Oh
!
do
n't
go
away
from
me
.
My
brother
...
.
No
;
never
mind
.
He
did
n't
mean
it
.
He
was
in
jest
...
.
But
you
,
oh
!
ca
n't
you
forgive
me
for
to-night
?
I
will
work
so
hard
,
and
try
to
improve
.
Do
n't
be
cruel
to
me
because
I
love
you
better
than
anything
in
the
world
.
After
all
,
it
is
only
once
that
I
have
not
pleased
you
.
But
you
are
quite
right
,
Dorian
.
I
should
have
shown
myself
more
of
an
artist
.
It
was
foolish
of
me
;
and
yet
I
could
n't
help
it
.
Oh
,
do
n't
leave
me
,
do
n't
leave
me
.
"
A
fit
of
passionate
sobbing
choked
her
.
She
crouched
on
the
floor
like
a
wounded
thing
,
and
Dorian
Gray
,
with
his
beautiful
eyes
,
looked
down
at
her
,
and
his
chiselled
lips
curled
in
exquisite
disdain
.
There
is
always
something
ridiculous
about
the
emotions
of
people
whom
one
has
ceased
to
love
.
Sibyl
Vane
seemed
to
him
to
be
absurdly
melodramatic
.
Her
tears
and
sobs
annoyed
him
.
"
I
am
going
,
"
he
said
at
last
,
in
his
calm
,
clear
voice
.
"
I
do
n't
wish
to
be
unkind
,
but
I
ca
n't
see
you
again
.
You
have
disappointed
me
.
"
She
wept
silently
,
and
made
no
answer
,
but
crept
nearer
.
Her
little
hands
stretched
blindly
out
,
and
appeared
to
be
seeking
for
him
.
He
turned
on
his
heel
,
and
left
the
room
.
In
a
few
moments
he
was
out
of
the
theatre
.
Where
he
went
to
be
hardly
knew
.
He
remembered
wandering
through
dimly-lit
streets
,
past
gaunt
black-shadowed
archways
and
evil-looking
houses
.
Women
with
hoarse
voices
and
harsh
laughter
had
called
after
him
.
Drunkards
had
reeled
by
cursing
,
and
chattering
to
themselves
like
monstrous
apes
.
He
had
seen
grotesque
children
huddled
upon
doorsteps
,
and
heard
shrieks
and
oaths
from
gloomy
courts
.
As
the
dawn
was
just
breaking
he
found
himself
close
to
Covent
Garden
.
The
darkness
lifted
,
and
,
flushed
with
faint
fires
,
the
sky
hollowed
itself
into
a
perfect
pearl
.
Huge
carts
filled
with
nodding
lilies
rumbled
slowly
down
the
polished
empty
street
.
The
air
was
heavy
with
the
perfume
of
the
flowers
,
and
their
beauty
seemed
to
bring
him
an
anodyne
for
his
pain
.
He
followed
into
the
market
,
and
watched
the
men
unloading
their
waggons
.
A
white-smocked
carter
offered
him
some
cherries
.
He
thanked
him
,
and
wondered
why
he
refused
to
accept
any
money
for
them
,
and
began
to
eat
them
listlessly
.
They
had
been
plucked
at
midnight
,
and
the
coldness
of
the
moon
had
entered
into
them
.
A
long
line
of
boys
carrying
crates
of
striped
tulips
,
and
of
yellow
and
red
roses
,
defiled
in
front
of
him
,
threading
their
way
through
the
huge
jade-green
piles
of
vegetables
.
Under
the
portico
,
with
its
grey
sun-bleached
pillars
,
loitered
a
troop
of
draggled
bareheaded
girls
,
waiting
for
the
auction
to
be
over
.
Others
crowded
round
the
swinging
doors
of
the
coffee-house
in
the
Piazza
.
The
heavy
cart-horses
slipped
and
stamped
upon
the
rough
stones
,
shaking
their
bells
and
trappings
.
Some
of
the
drivers
were
lying
asleep
on
a
pile
of
sacks
.
Iris-necked
,
and
pink-footed
,
the
pigeons
ran
about
picking
up
seeds
.
After
a
little
while
,
he
hailed
a
hansom
,
and
drove
home
.
For
a
few
moments
he
loitered
upon
the
doorstep
,
looking
round
at
the
silent
Square
with
its
blank
,
close-shuttered
windows
,
and
its
staring
blinds
.
The
sky
was
pure
opal
now
,
and
the
roofs
of
the
houses
glistened
like
silver
against
it
.
From
some
chimney
opposite
a
thin
wreath
of
smoke
was
rising
.
It
curled
,
a
violet
riband
,
through
the
nacre-coloured
air
.
