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Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft, 1797-1851

"Frankenstein"

Kirwin regarded me with a troubled countenance. He could not help
regarding my exclamation as a presumption of my guilt and said in
rather a severe tone, "I should have thought, young man, that the
presence of your father would have been welcome instead of inspiring
such violent repugnance."
"My father!" cried I, while every feature and every muscle was relaxed
from anguish to pleasure. "Is my father indeed come? How kind, how
very kind! But where is he, why does he not hasten to me?"
My change of manner surprised and pleased the magistrate; perhaps he
thought that my former exclamation was a momentary return of delirium,
and now he instantly resumed his former benevolence. He rose and
quitted the room with my nurse, and in a moment my father entered it.
Nothing, at this moment, could have given me greater pleasure than the
arrival of my father. I stretched out my hand to him and cried, "Are
you, then, safe--and Elizabeth--and Ernest?" My father calmed me with
assurances of their welfare and endeavoured, by dwelling on these
subjects so interesting to my heart, to raise my desponding spirits;
but he soon felt that a prison cannot be the abode of cheerfulness.
"What a place is this that you inhabit, my son!" said he, looking
mournfully at the barred windows and wretched appearance of the room.
"You travelled to seek happiness, but a fatality seems to pursue you.
And poor Clerval--"
The name of my unfortunate and murdered friend was an agitation too
great to be endured in my weak state; I shed tears.


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