1 But then in the Church they don't think.
2 You must certainly send it next year to the Grosvenor.
3 "You don't understand me, Harry," answered the artist.
4 Lord Henry stretched himself out on the divan and laughed.
5 Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions.
6 The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.
7 Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face.
8 "It is your best work, Basil, the best thing you have ever done," said Lord Henry languidly.
9 It is silly of you, for there is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.
10 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.
11 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.
12 Lord Henry elevated his eyebrows and looked at him in amazement through the thin blue wreaths of smoke that curled up in such fanciful whorls from his heavy, opium-tainted cigarette.
13 But he suddenly started up, and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he sought to imprison within his brain some curious dream from which he feared he might awake.
14 Whenever I have gone there, there have been either so many people that I have not been able to see the pictures, which was dreadful, or so many pictures that I have not been able to see the people, which was worse.
15 The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine, seemed to make the stillness more oppressive.
16 The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.
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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