ll, I am punis, Dorian--or s;

    quot;I dont kno; urning round. quot;I dont kno.  do you ?quot;

    quot;I  to paint,quot; said tist sadly.

    quot;Basil,quot; said to ting ;you oo late. Yesterday, w Sibyl Vane ;

    quot;Killed  about t?quot; cried  h an expression of horror.

    quot;My dear Basil! Surely you dont t ? Of course s;

    t;; tered, and a shrough him.

    quot;No,quot; said Dorian Gray, quot;t it. It is one of t romantic tragedies of t lead t commonplace lives. tedious. You knoue and all t kind of t Sibyl ragedy. S nig you say, s migo t. tyr about ic uselessness of martyrdom, all its ed beauty. But, as I  not t suffered. If you erday at a particular moment-- about  five, perer to six-- you ,  I  passed a repeat an emotion. No one can, except sentimentalists. And you are a, Basil. You come do is cic person! You remind me of a story old me about a certain p y years of rying to get some grievance redressed, or some unjust laered--I forget exactly  . ely noto do, almost died of ennui, and became a confirmed misant to console me, teaco forget  from a proper artistic point of vie not Gautier e about la consolation des arts? I remember picking up a little vellum-covered book in your studio one day and c delig like t young man you told me of ogeto say t yelloin could console one for all tiful t one can touce surroundings, luxury, pomp--to be got from all t tistic temperament t te, or at any rate reveal, is still more to me. to become tator of one