The memory of the thing is hateful to me.

Why do you talk of it?
It used to remind me of those curious lines in some play--Hamlet, I think--how do they run ?-- "Like the painting of a sorrow, A face without a heart." Yes: that is what it was like." Lord Henry laughed.

"If a man treats life artistically, his brain is his heart," he answered, sinking into an arm-chair.
Dorian Gray shook his head and struck some soft chords on the piano.
"'Like the painting of a sorrow,'" he repeated, "'a face without a heart.'" The elder man lay back and looked at him with half-closed eyes.

"By the way, Dorian," he said after a pause, "'what does it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose--how does the quotation run ?--his own soul' ?" The music jarred, and Dorian Gray started and stared at his friend.
"Why do you ask me that, Harry ?" "My dear fellow," said Lord Henry, elevating his eyebrows in surprise, "I asked you because I thought you might be able to give me an answer.
That is all.

I was going through the park last Sunday, and close by the Marble Arch there stood a little crowd of shabby-looking people listening to some vulgar street-preacher.