"After the murder of Clerval, I returned to [Switzerland heartbroken] <Switzerland, heart-broken> and overcome. I pitied Frankenstein; my pity amounted to horror: I abhorred myself. But when I discovered that he, the author at once of my existence and of its unspeakable torments, dared to hope for happiness; that while he accumulated wretchedness and despair upon [me he] <me, he> sought his own enjoyment in feelings and passions from the indulgence of which I was for ever barred, then impotent envy and bitter indignation filled me with an insatiable thirst for vengeance. I recollected my threat, and resolved that it should be accomplished. I knew that I was preparing for myself a deadly torture; but I was the slave, not the [master of] <master, of> an impulse, which I detested, yet could not disobey. Yet when she died! -- nay, then I was not miserable. I had cast off all feeling, subdued all [anguish to] <anguish, to> riot in the excess of my despair. Evil thenceforth became my good. Urged thus far, I had no choice but to adapt my nature to an element which I had willingly chosen. The completion of my demoniacal design became an insatiable passion. And now it is ended; there is my last victim!"

I was at first touched by the expressions of his misery; yet, when I called to mind what Frankenstein had said of his powers of eloquence and persuasion, and when I again cast my eyes on the lifeless form of my friend, indignation was [re-kindled] <rekindled> within me. "Wretch!" I said, "it is well that you come here to whine over the desolation that you have made. You throw a torch into a pile of buildings; [and when they are consumed you] <and, when they are consumed, you> sit among the ruins, and lament the fall. Hypocritical fiend! if he whom you mourn still lived, still would he be the object, again would he become the [prey of] <prey, of> your accursed vengeance. It is not pity that you feel; you lament only because the victim of your malignity is withdrawn from your power."