He knew it, and he felt as if his blood had changed in a moment from fire to sluggish ice.

His own picture! What did it mean?
Why had it altered?
He turned and looked at Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man.

His mouth twitched, and his parched tongue seemed unable to articulate.

He passed his hand across his forehead.

It was dank with clammy sweat.
The young man was leaning against the mantelshelf, watching him with that strange expression that one sees on the faces of those who are absorbed in a play when some great artist is acting.