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- Портрет Дориана Грея
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- Стр. 147/164
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"
Have
you
had
good
sport
,
Geoffrey
?
"
he
asked
.
"
Not
very
good
,
Dorian
.
I
think
most
of
the
birds
have
gone
to
the
open
.
I
dare
say
it
will
be
better
after
lunch
,
when
we
get
to
new
ground
.
"
Dorian
strolled
along
by
his
side
.
The
keen
aromatic
air
,
the
brown
and
red
lights
that
glimmered
in
the
wood
,
the
hoarse
cries
of
the
beaters
ringing
out
from
time
to
time
,
and
the
sharp
snaps
of
the
guns
that
followed
,
fascinated
him
,
and
filled
him
with
a
sense
of
delightful
freedom
.
He
was
dominated
by
the
carelessness
of
happiness
,
by
the
high
indifference
of
joy
.
Suddenly
from
a
lumpy
tussock
of
old
grass
,
some
twenty
yards
in
front
of
them
,
with
black-tipped
ears
erect
,
and
long
hinder
limbs
throwing
it
forward
,
started
a
hare
.
It
bolted
for
a
thicket
of
alders
.
Sir
Geoffrey
put
his
gun
to
his
shoulder
,
but
there
was
something
in
the
animal
's
grace
of
movement
that
strangely
charmed
Dorian
Gray
,
and
he
cried
out
at
once
,
"
Do
n't
shoot
it
,
Geoffrey
.
Let
it
live
.
"
"
What
nonsense
,
Dorian
!
"
laughed
his
companion
,
and
as
the
hare
bounded
into
the
thicket
he
fired
.
There
were
two
cries
heard
,
the
cry
of
a
hare
in
pain
,
which
is
dreadful
,
the
cry
of
a
man
in
agony
,
which
is
worse
.
"
Good
heavens
!
I
have
hit
a
beater
!
"
exclaimed
Sir
Geoffrey
.
"
What
an
ass
the
man
was
to
get
in
front
of
the
guns
!
Stop
shooting
there
!
"
he
called
out
at
the
top
of
his
voice
.
"
A
man
is
hurt
.
"
The
head-keeper
came
running
up
with
a
stick
in
his
hand
.
"
Where
,
sir
?
Where
is
he
?
"
he
shouted
.
At
the
same
time
the
firing
ceased
along
the
line
.
"
Here
,
"
answered
Sir
Geoffrey
,
angrily
,
hurrying
towards
the
thicket
.
"
Why
on
earth
do
n't
you
keep
your
men
back
?
Spoiled
my
shooting
for
the
day
.
"
Dorian
watched
them
as
they
plunged
into
the
alder-clump
,
brushing
the
lithe
,
swinging
branches
aside
.
In
a
few
moments
they
emerged
,
dragging
a
body
after
them
into
the
sunlight
.
He
turned
away
in
horror
.
It
seemed
to
him
that
misfortune
followed
wherever
he
went
.
He
heard
Sir
Geoffrey
ask
if
the
man
was
really
dead
,
and
the
affirmative
answer
of
the
keeper
.
The
wood
seemed
to
him
to
have
become
suddenly
alive
with
faces
.
There
was
the
trampling
of
myriad
feet
,
and
the
low
buzz
of
voices
.
A
great
copper-breasted
pheasant
came
beating
through
the
boughs
overhead
.
