Frankenstein

joy, except as it is mirrored also in your dear countenances--who would
fill the air with blessings, and spend his life in serving you--he bids
you weep--to shed countless tears; happy beyond his hopes, if thus
inexorable fate be satisfied, and if the destruction pause before the
peace of the grave have succeeded to your sad torments!

Thus spoke my prophetic soul, as, torn by remorse, horror, and despair,
I beheld those I loved spend vain sorrow upon the graves of William and
Justine, the first hapless victims to my unhallowed arts.




CHAPTER IX.


Nothing is more painful to the human mind, than, after the feelings have
been worked up by a quick succession of events, the dead calmness of
inaction and certainty which follows, and deprives the soul both of hope
and fear. Justine died; she rested; and I was alive. The blood flowed
freely in my veins, but a weight of despair and remorse pressed on my
heart, which nothing could remove. Sleep fled from my eyes; I wandered
like an evil spirit, for I had committed deeds of mischief beyond
description horrible, and more, much more (I persuaded myself), was yet
behind. Yet my heart overflowed with kindness, and the love of virtue. I