"You are mad, Dorian, or playing a part," muttered Hallward, frowning.
"You won't?
Then I must do it myself," said the young man, and he tore the curtain from its rod and flung it on the ground.
An exclamation of horror broke from the painter's lips as he saw in the dim light the hideous face on the canvas grinning at him.

There was something in its expression that filled him with disgust and loathing.
Good heavens! it was Dorian Gray's own face that he was looking at! The horror, whatever it was, had not yet entirely spoiled that marvellous beauty.

There was still some gold in the thinning hair and some scarlet on the sensual mouth.

The sodden eyes had kept something of the loveliness of their blue, the noble curves had not yet completely passed away from chiselled nostrils and from plastic throat.
Yes, it was Dorian himself.

But who had done it?
He seemed to recognize his own brushwork, and the frame was his own design.