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
“his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing” I will now forever picture the creature with hero on the cover of a romance novel hair a la Fabio and am delighted by this turn of events
Frankenstein really made a monster and then went “is it me? 🥺 am *I* the victim?”
“his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing” I will now forever picture the creature with hero on the cover of a romance novel hair a la Fabio and am delighted by this turn of events