On the day Victor finished his story, Walton wrote to his sister again. Having read this strange and terrible tale, did she not feel her blood freeze? His own, he said, was curdling even now.
At times Victor was seized by sudden agony and could not go on. At others his voice, broken yet piercing, forced out words full of anguish. His fine eyes would blaze with indignation, then drop in sorrow and go dark with endless misery.
Sometimes he controlled his face and voice and told the most horrible things calmly. Then, like a volcano erupting, his face would change to the wildest rage as he shrieked curses at his persecutor.