1 A beautiful woman risking everything for a mad passion.
2 He had mad hungers that grew more ravenous as he fed them.
3 "You are mad, Dorian, or playing a part," muttered Hallward, frowning.
4 He felt that if he brooded on what he had gone through he would sicken or grow mad.
5 Suddenly there had fallen upon his brain that tiny scarlet speck that makes men mad.
6 His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vane was a psychological phenomenon of no small interest.
7 He remembered the autumn that he had passed there, and a wonderful love that had stirred him to mad delightful follies.
8 In a mad moment that, even now, I don't know whether I regret or not, I made a wish, perhaps you would call it a prayer.
9 She has been mad, and has come into the presence of a guilty king, and given him rue to wear and bitter herbs to taste of.
10 It had been mad of him to have allowed the thing to remain, even for an hour, in a room to which any of his friends had access.
11 The exaggerated folly of the threat, the passionate gesture that accompanied it, the mad melodramatic words, made life seem more vivid to her.
12 As I lounged in the park, or strolled down Piccadilly, I used to look at every one who passed me and wonder, with a mad curiosity, what sort of lives they led.
13 The mad passions of a hunted animal stirred within him, and he loathed the man who was seated at the table, more than in his whole life he had ever loathed anything.
14 Certainly few people had ever interested him so much as Dorian Gray, and yet the lad's mad adoration of some one else caused him not the slightest pang of annoyance or jealousy.
15 I only knew that I had seen perfection face to face, and that the world had become wonderful to my eyes--too wonderful, perhaps, for in such mad worships there is peril, the peril of losing them, no less than the peril of keeping them.
16 The praise of folly, as he went on, soared into a philosophy, and philosophy herself became young, and catching the mad music of pleasure, wearing, one might fancy, her wine-stained robe and wreath of ivy, danced like a Bacchante over the hills of life, and mocked the slow Silenus for being sober.
17 He had uttered a mad wish that he himself might remain young, and the portrait grow old; that his own beauty might be untarnished, and the face on the canvas bear the burden of his passions and his sins; that the painted image might be seared with the lines of suffering and thought, and that he might keep all the delicate bloom and loveliness of his then just conscious boyhood.
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