He would place his white hands beside the coarse bloated hands of the picture, and smile.

He mocked the misshapen body and the failing limbs.
There were moments, indeed, at night, when, lying sleepless in his own delicately scented chamber, or in the sordid room of the little ill-famed tavern near the docks which, under an assumed name and in disguise, it was his habit to frequent, he would think of the ruin he had brought upon his soul with a pity that was all the more poignant because it was purely selfish.

But moments such as these were rare.
That curiosity about life which Lord Henry had first stirred in him, as they sat together in the garden of their friend, seemed to increase with gratification.

The more he knew, the more he desired to know.

He had mad hungers that grew more ravenous as he fed them.
Yet he was not really reckless, at any rate in his relations to society.