1 Perhaps it was not so reckless, after all.
2 When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale.
3 You said it was because there was too much of yourself in it.
4 The dim roar of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.
5 It was not conscience that made me do so: it was a sort of cowardice.
6 It was reckless of me, but I asked Lady Brandon to introduce me to him.
7 Something seemed to tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life.
8 When poor Southwark got into the divorce court, their indignation was quite magnificent.
9 Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward's heart beating, and wondered what was coming.
10 However, whatever was my motive--and it may have been pride, for I used to be very proud--I certainly struggled to the door.
11 What the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of Antinous was to late Greek sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray will some day be to me.
12 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.
13 Well, after I had been in the room about ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tedious academicians, I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at me.
14 I knew that I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself.
15 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.
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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