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"
Ah
,
what
is
impossible
?
"
murmured
the
young
man
,
going
over
to
the
window
,
and
leaning
his
forehead
against
the
cold
,
mist-stained
glass
.
"
You
told
me
you
had
destroyed
it
.
"
"
I
was
wrong
.
It
has
destroyed
me
.
"
"
I
do
n't
believe
it
is
my
picture
.
"
"
Ca
n't
you
see
your
ideal
in
it
?
"
said
Dorian
,
bitterly
.
"
My
ideal
,
as
you
call
it
...
.
"
"
As
you
called
it
.
"
"
There
was
nothing
evil
in
it
,
nothing
shameful
.
You
were
to
me
such
an
ideal
as
I
shall
never
meet
again
.
This
is
the
face
of
a
satyr
.
"
"
It
is
the
face
of
my
soul
.
"
"
Christ
!
what
a
thing
I
must
have
worshipped
!
It
has
the
eyes
of
a
devil
.
"
