This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had <perhaps never> entirely recovered from the first shock it had sustained. I shunned the face of man; all sound of joy or complacency was torture to me; solitude was my only consolation -- deep, dark, [death-like] <deathlike> solitude.
My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in my disposition and habits, and endeavoured [to reason with me on the folly of giving way to immoderate grief] <by arguments deduced from the feelings of his serene conscience and guiltless life, to inspire me with fortitude, and awaken in me the courage to dispel the dark cloud which brooded over me>. "Do you think, Victor," said he, "that I do not suffer also? No one could love a child more than I loved your brother;" (tears came into his eyes as he spoke); "but is it not a duty to the survivors, that we should refrain from augmenting their unhappiness by an appearance of immoderate grief? It is also a duty owed to yourself; for excessive sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment, or even the discharge of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for society."
This advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to my case; I should have been the first to hide my grief, and console my friends, if remorse had not mingled its [bitterness] <bitterness, and terror its alarm> with my other sensations. Now I could only answer my father with a look of despair, and endeavour to hide myself from his view.