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they had reached the great flight of steps that led from the conservatory on to the terrace. as the glass door closed behind dorian, lord henry turned and looked at the duchess with his slumberous eyes. "are you very much in love with him?" he asked.
he took up from the couch the great purple-and-gold texture that covered it, and, holding it in his hands, passed behind the screen. was the face on the canvas viler than before? it seemed to him that it was unchanged, and yet his loathing of it was intensified. gold hair, blue eyes, and rose-red lips--they all were there. it was simply the expression that had altered. that was horrible in its cruelty. compared to what he saw in it of censure or rebuke, how shallow basils reproaches about sibyl vane had been!-- how shallow, and of what little account! his own soul was looking out at him from the canvas and calling him to judgement. a look of pain came across him, and he flung the rich pall over the picture. as he did so, a knock came to the door. he passed out as his servant entered.
"you would sacrifice anybody, harry, for the sake of an epigram."
"mother, mother, i am so happy!" whispered the girl, burying her face in the lap of the faded, tired-looking woman who, with back turned to the shrill intrusive light, was sitting in the one arm-chair that their dingy sitting-room contained. "i am so happy!" she repeated, "and you must be happy, too!"