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when he had stretched himself on the sofa, he looked at the title-page of the book. it was gautiers emaux et camees, charpentiers japanese-paper edition, with the jacquemart etching. the binding was of citron-green leather, with a design of gilt trellis-work and dotted pomegranates. it had been given to him by adrian singleton. as he turned over the pages, his eye fell on the poem about the hand of lacenaire, the cold yellow hand "du supplice encore mal lavé:e," with its downy red hairs and its "doigts de faune." he glanced at his own white taper fingers, shuddering slightly in spite of himself, and passed on, till he came to those lovely stanzas upon venice:
"your life? good heavens! what a life that is! you have gone from corruption to corruption, and now you have culminated in crime. in doing what i am going to do--what you force me to do-- it is not of your life that i am thinking."
after about a quarter of an hour hallward stopped painting, looked for a long time at dorian gray, and then for a long time at the picture, biting the end of one of his huge brushes and frowning. "it is quite finished," he cried at last, and stooping down he wrote his name in long vermilion letters on the left-hand corner of the canvas.