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que soulève un soupir damour.
"my dear fellow, she tried to found a salon, and only succeeded in opening a restaurant. how could i admire her? but tell me, what did she say about mr. dorian gray?"
"what is?" asked lord henry. "oh! this accident, i suppose. my dear fellow, it cant be helped. it was the mans own fault. why did he get in front of the guns? besides, it is nothing to us. it is rather awkward for geoffrey, of course. it does not do to pepper beaters. it makes people think that one is a wild shot. and geoffrey is not; he shoots very straight. but there is no use talking about the matter."
but this murder--was it to dog him all his life? was he always to be burdened by his past? was he really to confess? never. there was only one bit of evidence left against him. the picture itself-- that was evidence. he would destroy it. why had he kept it so long? once it had given him pleasure to watch it changing and growing old. of late he had felt no such pleasure. it had kept him awake at night. when he had been away, he had been filled with terror lest other eyes should look upon it. it had brought melancholy across his passions. its mere memory had marred many moments of joy. it had been like conscience to him. yes, it had been conscience. he would destroy it.