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Yazar: Oscar Wilde

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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.

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