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in the huge gilt venetian lantern, spoil of some doges barge, that hung from the ceiling of the great, oak-panelled hall of entrance, lights were still burning from three flickering jets: thin blue petals of flame they seemed, rimmed with white fire. he turned them out and, having thrown his hat and cape on the table, passed through the library towards the door of his bedroom, a large octagonal chamber on the ground floor that, in his new-born feeling for luxury, he had just had decorated for himself and hung with some curious renaissance tapestries that had been discovered stored in a disused attic at selby royal. as he was turning the handle of the door, his eye fell upon the portrait basil hallward had painted of him. he started back as if in surprise. then he went on into his own room, looking somewhat puzzled. after he had taken the button-hole out of his coat, he seemed to hesitate. finally, he came back, went over to the picture, and examined it. in the dim arrested light that struggled through the cream-coloured silk blinds, the face appeared to him to be a little changed. the expression looked different. one would have said that there was a touch of cruelty in the mouth. it was certainly strange.
as the chime struck one, campbell turned round, and looking at dorian gray, saw that his eyes were filled with tears. there was something in the purity and refinement of that sad face that seemed to enrage him. "you are infamous, absolutely infamous!" he muttered.
"sphinxes without secrets."
there are moments, psychologists tell us, when the passion for sin, or for what the world calls sin, so dominates a nature that every fibre of the body, as every cell of the brain, seems to be instinct with fearful impulses. men and women at such moments lose the freedom of their will. they move to their terrible end as automatons move. choice is taken from them, and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives at all, lives but to give rebellion its fascination and disobedience its charm. for all sins, as theologians weary not of reminding us, are sins of disobedience. when that high spirit, that morning star of evil, fell from heaven, it was as a rebel that he fell.
"he is very good-looking," assented lord henry.
and so, for a whole year, he sought to accumulate the most exquisite specimens that he could find of textile and embroidered work, getting the dainty delhi muslins, finely wrought with gold-thread palmates and stitched over with iridescent beetles wings; the dacca gauzes, that from their transparency are known in the east as "woven air," and "running water," and "evening dew"; strange figured cloths from java; elaborate yellow chinese hangings; books bound in tawny satins or fair blue silks and wrought with fleurs-de-lys, birds and images; veils of lacis worked in hungary point; sicilian brocades and stiff spanish velvets; georgian work, with its gilt coins, and japanese foukousas, with their green-toned golds and their marvellously plumaged birds.