There was neither real sorrow in it nor real joy.

There was simply the passion of the spectator, with perhaps a flicker of triumph in his eyes.

He had taken the flower out of his coat, and was smelling it, or pretending to do so.
"What does this mean ?" cried Hallward, at last.

His own voice sounded shrill and curious in his ears.
"Years ago, when I was a boy," said Dorian Gray, crushing the flower in his hand, "you met me, flattered me, and taught me to be vain of my good looks.

One day you introduced me to a friend of yours, who explained to me the wonder of youth, and you finished a portrait of me that revealed to me the wonder of beauty.