cried he, “find a wife for his bosom, and each beast have his mate, and I be alone? I had feelings of affection, and they were requited by detestation and scorn. Man! you may hate; but beware! your hours will pass in dread and misery, and soon the bolt will fall which must ravish from you your happiness for ever. Are you to be happy while I grovel in the intensity of my wretchedness? —Frankenstein, Volume III, Chapter III A door slammed, someone pounded up the stairs. “Claire.” Mary’s voice was grim. Shelley slid quickly out of the bed and pulled on his trousers. Mary found her night rail and struggled into it, silently damning her step-sister’s usual awful timing. “Oh, damn that man. Damn, damn, damn!” Claire was sobbing into Shelley’s chest when Mary, puffing, finally caught up with them in Claire’s room. “Here, sit down,” Shelley said, guiding Claire to sit on the bed. “Dry your eyes.” He searched in his waistcoat for a handkerchief in vain. Giving up on his search, Shelley pulled his shirt out of his waistband and used the tail to dab tenderly at Claire’s swollen eyes.
