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Page 114 of 483

Author: Mary Shelley

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I remained motionless. The thunder ceased; but the rain still
continued, and the scene was enveloped in an impenetrable
darkness. I revolved in my mind the events which I had until now
sought to forget: the whole train of my progress toward the
creation; the appearance of the works of my own hands at my
bedside; its departure. Two years had now nearly elapsed since
the night on which he first received life; and was this his first
crime? Alas! I had turned loose into the world a depraved wretch,
whose delight was in carnage and misery; had he not murdered my
brother?

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