long arm across and hid it. The
gas-lamps grew fewer, and the streets more narrow and gloomy. Once the
man lost his way, and had to drive back half a mile. A steam rose from
the horse as it splashed up the puddles. The side-windows of the hansom
were clogged with a grey-flannel mist.

"To cure the soul by means of the senses, and the senses by means of the
soul!" How the words rang in his ears! His soul, certainly, was sick to
death. Was it true that the senses could cure it? Innocent blood had
been spilt. What could atone for that? Ah! for that there was no
atonement; but though forgiveness was impossible, forgetfulness was
possible still, and he was determined to forget, to stamp the thing out,
to crush it as one would crush the adder that had stung one. Indeed,
what right had Basil to have spoken to him as he had done? Who had made
him a Judge over others? He had said things that were dreadful,
horrible, not to be endured.

On and on plodded the hansom, going slower, it seemed to him, at each
step. He thrust up the trap, and called to the man to drive faster. The
hideous hunger for opium began to gnaw at him. His throat burned, and
his delicate hands twitched nervously together. He struck at the horse
madly with his stick. The driver laughed, and whipped up. He laughed in
answer, and the man was silent.

The way seemed interminable, and the streets like the black web of some
sprawling spider. The monotony became unbearable, and, as the mist
thickened, he felt afraid.

Then they passed by lonely brickfields. The fog was lighter here, and he
could see the strange bottle-shaped kilns with their orange fan-like
tongues of fire. A dog barked as they went by, and far away in the
darkness some wandering sea-gull screamed. The horse stumbled in a rut,
then swerved aside, and broke into a gallop.

After some time they left the clay road, and rattled again over
rough-paven streets. Most of the windows were dark, but now and then
fantastic shadows were silhouetted against some lamp-lit blind. He
watched them curiously. They moved like monstrous marionettes, and made
gestures like live things. He hated them. A dull rage was in his heart.
As they turned a corner a woman yelled something at them from an open
door, and two men ran after the hansom for about a hundred yards. The
driver beat at them with his whip.

It is said that passion makes one think in a circle. Certainly with
hideous iteration the bitten lips of Dorian