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Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft, 1797-1851

"Frankenstein"

This
state lasted but for an instant; the scream was repeated, and I rushed
into the room. Great God! Why did I not then expire! Why am I here
to relate the destruction of the best hope and the purest creature on
earth? She was there, lifeless and inanimate, thrown across the bed,
her head hanging down and her pale and distorted features half covered
by her hair. Everywhere I turn I see the same figure--her bloodless
arms and relaxed form flung by the murderer on its bridal bier. Could
I behold this and live? Alas! Life is obstinate and clings closest
where it is most hated. For a moment only did I lose recollection; I
fell senseless on the ground.
When I recovered I found myself surrounded by the people of the inn;
their countenances expressed a breathless terror, but the horror of
others appeared only as a mockery, a shadow of the feelings that
oppressed me. I escaped from them to the room where lay the body of
Elizabeth, my love, my wife, so lately living, so dear, so worthy. She
had been moved from the posture in which I had first beheld her, and
now, as she lay, her head upon her arm and a handkerchief thrown across
her face and neck, I might have supposed her asleep. I rushed towards
her and embraced her with ardour, but the deadly languor and coldness
of the limbs told me that what I now held in my arms had ceased to be
the Elizabeth whom I had loved and cherished.


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