1 Yet you poisoned me with a book once.
2 Dorian Gray had been poisoned by a book.
3 But after a time the book fell from his hand.
4 It was the strangest book that he had ever read.
5 His eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him.
6 Harry, promise me that you will never lend that book to any one.
7 For years, Dorian Gray could not free himself from the influence of this book.
8 When he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at the title-page of the book.
9 The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible.
10 And, indeed, the whole book seemed to him to contain the story of his own life, written before he had lived it.
11 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.
12 Thin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at prudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name of common sense.
13 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.
14 The flameless tapers stand where we had left them, and beside them lies the half-cut book that we had been studying, or the wired flower that we had worn at the ball, or the letter that we had been afraid to read, or that we had read too often.
15 He was amazed at the sudden impression that his words had produced, and, remembering a book that he had read when he was sixteen, a book which had revealed to him much that he had not known before, he wondered whether Dorian Gray was passing through a similar experience.
16 On a little table of dark perfumed wood thickly incrusted with nacre, a present from Lady Radley, his guardian's wife, a pretty professional invalid who had spent the preceding winter in Cairo, was lying a note from Lord Henry, and beside it was a book bound in yellow paper, the cover slightly torn and the edges soiled.
17 It was with an almost cruel joy--and perhaps in nearly every joy, as certainly in every pleasure, cruelty has its place--that 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.
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