1 A strange sense of loss came over him.
2 I had a strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows.
3 Women defend themselves by attacking, just as they attack by sudden and strange surrenders.
4 I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shall be sorry for having said.
5 Then had come Lord Henry Wotton with his strange panegyric on youth, his terrible warning of its brevity.
6 There were maladies so strange that one had to pass through them if one sought to understand their nature.
7 Crudely as it had been told to him, it had yet stirred him by its suggestion of a strange, almost modern romance.
8 "Let us go, Basil," said Lord Henry with a strange tenderness in his voice, and the two young men passed out together.
9 "It is only the sacred things that are worth touching, Dorian," said Lord Henry, with a strange touch of pathos in his voice.
10 But the strange expression that he had noticed in the face of the portrait seemed to linger there, to be more intensified even.
11 A dim sense of having taken part in some strange tragedy came to him once or twice, but there was the unreality of a dream about it.
12 But you must think of that lonely death in the tawdry dressing-room simply as a strange lurid fragment from some Jacobean tragedy, as a wonderful scene from Webster, or Ford, or Cyril Tourneur.
13 He remembered that Lord Henry had said to him once, half seriously and half in jest, "If you want to have a strange quarter of an hour, get Basil to tell you why he won't exhibit your picture."
14 Yet he could not help feeling infinite pity for the painter who had just made this strange confession to him, and wondered if he himself would ever be so dominated by the personality of a friend.
15 It was a large, well-proportioned room, which had been specially built by the last Lord Kelso for the use of the little grandson whom, for his strange likeness to his mother, and also for other reasons, he had always hated and desired to keep at a distance.
16 He watched it with that strange interest in trivial things that we try to develop when things of high import make us afraid, or when we are stirred by some new emotion for which we cannot find expression, or when some thought that terrifies us lays sudden siege to the brain and calls on us to yield.
17 In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty, and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many strange conjectures.
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