1 It is like surrendering a part of them.
2 After a pause, Lord Henry pulled out his watch.
3 You never say a moral thing, and you never do a wrong thing.
4 The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.
5 Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face.
6 Lord Henry smiled, and leaning down, plucked a pink-petalled daisy from the grass and examined it.
7 It is a silly habit, I dare say, but somehow it seems to bring a great deal of romance into one's life.
8 I believe that you are really a very good husband, but that you are thoroughly ashamed of your own virtues.
9 Why, my dear Basil, he is a Narcissus, and you--well, of course you have an intellectual expression and all that.
10 A grasshopper began to chirrup by the wall, and like a blue thread a long thin dragon-fly floated past on its brown gauze wings.
11 You seem to forget that I am married, and the one charm of marriage is that it makes a life of deception absolutely necessary for both parties.
12 There is a fatality about all physical and intellectual distinction, the sort of fatality that seems to dog through history the faltering steps of kings.
13 Harry," said Basil Hallward, looking him straight in the face, "every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter.
14 A bishop keeps on saying at the age of eighty what he was told to say when he was a boy of eighteen, and as a natural consequence he always looks absolutely delightful.
15 As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his face, and seemed about to linger there.
16 "Being natural is simply a pose, and the most irritating pose I know," cried Lord Henry, laughing; and the two young men went out into the garden together and ensconced themselves on a long bamboo seat that stood in the shade of a tall laurel bush.
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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