
It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the
accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I
collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the
lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain
pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the
glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it
breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.*
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* From Frankenstein by Mary Shelley,
Chapter 5.
� 1999-2019 Suzanne Patricia Currie Bergeron. Updated
Monday, August 26, 2013 23:47 -0400. [email protected]