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"After the murder of Clerval I returned to Switzerland,

heart-broken and overcome. I pitied Frankenstein; my pity

amounted to horror; I abhorred myself. But when I discovered that

he, the author at once of my existence and of its unspeakable

torments, dared to hope for happiness, that while he accumulated

wretchedness and despair upon me he sought his own enjoyment in

feelings and passions from the indulgence of which I was for ever

barred, then impotent envy and bitter indignation filled me with

an insatiable thirst for vengeance. I recollected my threat and

resolved that it should be accomplished. I knew that I was

preparing for myself a deadly torture, but I was the slave, not

the master, of an impulse which I detested yet could not disobey.

Yet when she died! Nay, then I was not miserable. I had cast off

all feeling, subdued all anguish, to riot in the excess of my

despair. Evil thenceforth became my good.