1 There had been a madness of murder in the air.
2 You have filled them with a madness for pleasure.
3 The murder had been simply the madness of a moment.
4 A beautiful woman risking everything for a mad passion.
5 There was the madness of pride in every word he uttered.
6 Suddenly there had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that makes men mad.
7 His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vane was a psychological phenomenon of no small interest.
8 She has been mad, and has come into the presence of a guilty king, and given him rue to wear and bitter herbs to taste of.
9 It had been mad of him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour, in a room to which any of his friends had access.
10 The exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that accompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid to her.
11 Finally, he went over to the table and wrote a passionate letter to the girl he had loved, imploring her forgiveness and accusing himself of madness.
12 There were opium dens where one could buy oblivion, dens of horror where the memory of old sins could be destroyed by the madness of sins that were new.
13 As I lounged in the park, or strolled down Piccadilly, I used to look at every one who passed me and wonder, with a mad curiosity, what sort of lives they led.
14 Certainly few people had ever interested him so much as Dorian Gray, and yet the lad's mad adoration of some one else caused him not the slightest pang of annoyance or jealousy.
15 I only knew that I had seen perfection face to face, and that the world had become wonderful to my eyes--too wonderful, perhaps, for in such mad worships there is peril, the peril of losing them, no less than the peril of keeping them.
16 The praise of folly, as he went on, soared into a philosophy, and philosophy herself became young, and catching the mad music of pleasure, wearing, one might fancy, her wine-stained robe and wreath of ivy, danced like a Bacchante over the hills of life, and mocked the slow Silenus for being sober.
17 He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the portrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness of his then just conscious boyhood.
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