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Gradually the events of the preceding night crept with silent,

blood-stained feet into his brain and reconstructed themselves

there with terrible distinctness. He winced at the memory of all

that he had suffered, and for a moment the same curious feeling

of loathing for Basil Hallward that had made him kill him as he

sat in the chair came back to him, and he grew cold with passion.

The dead man was still sitting there, too, and in the sunlight

now. How horrible that was! Such hideous things were for the

darkness, not for the day.