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Lying back in the hansom, with his hat pulled over his forehead,

Dorian Gray watched with listless eyes the sordid shame of the

great city, and now and then he repeated to himself the words

that Lord Henry had said to him on the first day they had met,

"To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means

of the soul." Yes, that was the secret. He had often tried it,

and would try it again now. There were opium dens where one could

buy oblivion, dens of horror where the memory of old sins could

be destroyed by the madness of sins that were new.

The moon hung low in the sky like a yellow skull. From time to

time a huge misshapen cloud stretched a long arm across and hid

it. The gas-lamps grew fewer, and the streets more narrow and

gloomy. Once the man lost his way and had to drive back half a

mile. A steam rose from the horse as it splashed up the puddles.

The sidewindows of the hansom were clogged with a grey-flannel

mist.