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This was the commencement of a nervous sever, which confined me for several months. During all that time Henry was my only nurse. I afterwards learned that, knowing my father's advanced age, and unfitness for so long. a journey, and how wretched my sickness would make Elizabeth, he spared them this grief by concealing the extent of my disorder. He knew that I could not have a more kind and attentive nurse than himself; and, firm. in the hope he felt of my recovery, he did not doubt that, instead of doing harm, he performed the kindest action. that he could towards them. But I was in reality very ill; and surely nothing but the unbounded and unremitting attentions of my friend Gould have restored me to life. The form of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was for ever before. my eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning him. Doubtless my words surprised Henry: he at first believed them. to be the wanderings of my disturbed imagination; but the pertinacity with which I continually recurred to the same subject persuaded him that my disorder indeed owed its origin to some uncommon and terrible event. By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses, that alarmed and grieved: my friend, I recovered. I remember the first time I became capable of observing outward objects with any kind of pleasure, I perceived that the fallen leaves had disappeared, and that the young buds were shooting forth from the trees that shaded my window. It was a divine spring; and the season. contributed greatly to my convalescence. I felt also sentiments of joy and affection revive in my bosom ; my gloom disappeared, and in a short time I became as cheerful as before I was attacked by the fatal passion. “ Dearest Clerval,” exclaimed I, “how kind, how very good you are to me. This whole winter, instead of being spent in study, as you promised. yourself, has been consumed in my sick room. How shall I ever repay you? I feel the greatest remorse for the disappointment of which H have been the occasion; but you will forgive me.” “You will repay me entirely, if you do not discompose yourself, but get well as fast as you can ; and since you. appear in such good spirits, I may speak to you on one subject, may I not * I trembled. One subject what could it be? Could he allude to an object on whom I dared not even think?

“Compose yourself,” said Clerval, who observed my change of colour, “I will not mention it, if it agitates you; but your father and cousin would be very happy if they received a letter from you in your own hand-writing. They hardly know how ill you have been, and are uneasy at your long silence.”

“Is that all? my dear Henry. How could you suppose that my first thought would not fly towards those dear, dear friends whom I love, and who are so deserving of my love.” * *

“If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps be glad to see a letter that has been lying here some days for you: it is from your cousin, f

believe.”
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=

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CHAPTER W.

Clerval, then put the following letter into my hands.

“ To W. FRANKENSTEIN.

* MY DEAR cous IN, “I cannot describe to you the uneasiness we have all felt concerning your health. We cannot help imagining that your friend Clerval conceals the extent of your disorder: for it is now several months since we have seen your hand-writing; and all this time you have been obliged to dictate your letters to Henry. Surely, Victor, you must have

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