Dorian Gray had not killed her.
His eye fell on the yellow book that Lord Henry had sent him.

What was it, he wondered.

He went towards the little, pearl-coloured octagonal stand that had always looked to him like the work of some strange Egyptian bees that wrought in silver, and taking up the volume, flung himself into an arm-chair and began to turn over the leaves.

After a few minutes he became absorbed.

It was the strangest book that he had ever read.