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PinkMonkey.com Digital Library-The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde


146

red glare came from an outward-bound steamer that was coaling.
The slimy pavement looked like a wet mackintosh.

He hurried on towards the left, glancing back now and then to see
if he was being followed. In about seven or eight minutes he
reached a small shabby house, that was wedged in between two
gaunt factories. In one of the top windows stood a lamp. He
stopped, and gave a peculiar knock.

After a little while he heard steps in the passage, and the chain
being unhooked. The door opened quietly, and he went in without
saying a word to the squat misshapen figure that flattened itself
upon the shadow as he passed. At the end of the hall hung a
tattered green curtain that swayed and shook in the gusty wind
which had followed him in from the street. He dragged it aside,
and entered a long, low room which looked as if it had once been a
third-rate dancing-saloon.

Shrill flaring gas-jets, dulled and distorted in the fly-blown mirrors
that faced them, were ranged round the walls. Greasy reflectors of
ribbed tin backed them, making quivering discs of light. The floor
was covered with ochre-coloured sawdust, trampled here and
there into mud, and stained with rings of spilt liquor.

Some Malays were crouching by a little charcoal stove playing with
bone counters, and showing their white teeth as they chattered. In
one corner with his head buried in his arms, a sailor sprawled over
a table, and by the tawdrily-painted bar that ran across one
complete side stood two haggard women mocking an old man who
was brushing the sleeves of his coat with an expression of disgust.
“He thinks he’s got red ants on him,” laughed one of them, as
Dorian passed by. The man looked at her in terror, and began to
whimper.

At the end of the room there was a little staircase, leading to a
darkened chamber. As Dorian hurried up its three rickety steps,
the heavy odour of opium met him. He heaved a deep breath, and
his nostrils quivered with pleasure. When he entered, a young man
with smooth yellow hair, who was bending over a lamp lighting a
long thin pipe, looked up at him, and nodded in a hesitating
manner.

“You here, Adrian?” muttered Dorian.
“Where else should I be?” he answered, listlessly. “None of the
chaps will speak to me now.” “I thought you had left England.”
“Darlington is not going to do anything. My brother paid the bill at
last.

George doesn’t speak to me either.... I don’t care,” he added, with a
sigh. “As long as one has this stuff, one doesn’t want friends. I
think I have had too many friends.” Dorian winced, and looked
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