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"
I
do
n't
want
it
put
straight
,
Leaf
.
I
only
want
the
key
.
"
"
Well
,
sir
,
you
'll
be
covered
with
cobwebs
if
you
go
into
it
.
Why
,
it
has
n't
been
opened
for
nearly
five
years
,
not
since
his
lordship
died
.
"
He
winced
at
the
mention
of
his
grandfather
.
He
had
hateful
memories
of
him
.
"
That
does
not
matter
,
"
he
answered
.
"
I
simply
want
to
see
the
place
--
that
is
all
.
Give
me
the
key
.
"
"
And
here
is
the
key
,
sir
,
"
said
the
old
lady
,
going
over
the
contents
of
her
bunch
with
tremulously
uncertain
hands
.
"
Here
is
the
key
.
I
'll
have
it
off
the
bunch
in
a
moment
.
But
you
do
n't
think
of
living
up
there
,
sir
,
and
you
so
comfortable
here
?
"
"
No
,
no
,
"
he
cried
,
petulantly
.
"
Thank
you
,
Leaf
.
That
will
do
.
"
She
lingered
for
a
few
moments
,
and
was
garrulous
over
some
detail
of
the
household
.
He
sighed
,
and
told
her
to
manage
things
as
she
thought
best
.
She
left
the
room
,
wreathed
in
smiles
.
As
the
door
closed
,
Dorian
put
the
key
in
his
pocket
,
and
looked
round
the
room
.
His
eye
fell
on
a
large
,
purple
satin
coverlet
heavily
embroidered
with
gold
,
a
splendid
piece
of
late
seventeenth-century
Venetian
work
that
his
grandfather
had
found
in
a
convent
near
Bologna
.
Yes
,
that
would
serve
to
wrap
the
dreadful
thing
in
.
It
had
perhaps
served
often
as
a
pall
for
the
dead
.
Now
it
was
to
hide
something
that
had
a
corruption
of
its
own
,
worse
than
the
corruption
of
death
itself
--
something
that
would
breed
horrors
and
yet
would
never
die
.
What
the
worm
was
to
the
corpse
,
his
sins
would
be
to
the
painted
image
on
the
canvas
.
They
would
mar
its
beauty
,
and
eat
away
its
grace
.
They
would
defile
it
,
and
make
it
shameful
.
And
yet
the
thing
would
still
live
on
.
It
would
be
always
alive
.
He
shuddered
,
and
for
a
moment
he
regretted
that
he
had
not
told
Basil
the
true
reason
why
he
had
wished
to
hide
the
picture
away
.
Basil
would
have
helped
him
to
resist
Lord
Henry
's
influence
,
and
the
still
more
poisonous
influences
that
came
from
his
own
temperament
.
The
love
that
he
bore
him
--
for
it
was
really
love
--
had
nothing
in
it
that
was
not
noble
and
intellectual
.
It
was
not
that
mere
physical
admiration
of
beauty
that
is
born
of
the
senses
,
and
that
dies
when
the
senses
tire
.
It
was
such
love
as
Michael
Angelo
had
known
,
and
Montaigne
,
and
Winckelmann
,
and
Shakespeare
himself
.
Yes
,
Basil
could
have
saved
him
.
But
it
was
too
late
now
.
The
past
could
always
be
annihilated
.
Regret
,
denial
,
or
forgetfulness
could
do
that
.
But
the
future
was
inevitable
.
There
were
passions
in
him
that
would
find
their
terrible
outlet
,
dreams
that
would
make
the
shadow
of
their
evil
real
.
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
Basil
's
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
judgment
.
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
.
