Frankenstein

Chapter 5

It was on a drea­ry night of Novem­ber that I beheld the accom­plish­ment of my toils. With an anx­i­ety that almost amount­ed to agony, I col­lect­ed the instru­ments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the life­less thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morn­ing; the rain pat­tered dis­mal­ly against the panes, and my can­dle was near­ly burnt out, when, by the glim­mer of the half-extin­guished light, I saw the dull yel­low eye of the crea­ture open; it breathed hard, and a con­vul­sive motion agi­tat­ed its limbs.

How can I describe my emo­tions at this cat­a­stro­phe, or how delin­eate the wretch whom with such infi­nite pains and care I had endeav­oured to form? His limbs were in pro­por­tion, and I had select­ed his fea­tures as beau­ti­ful. Beau­ti­ful! Great God! His yel­low skin scarce­ly cov­ered the work of mus­cles and arter­ies beneath; his hair was of a lus­trous black, and flow­ing; his teeth of a pearly white­ness; but these lux­u­ri­ances only formed a more hor­rid con­trast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun-white sock­ets in which they were set, his shriv­elled com­plex­ion and straight black lips.

The dif­fer­ent acci­dents of life are not so change­able as the feel­ings of human nature. I had worked hard for near­ly two years, for the sole pur­pose of infus­ing life into an inan­i­mate body. For this I had deprived myself of rest and health. I had desired it with an ardour that far exceed­ed mod­er­a­tion; but now that I had fin­ished, the beau­ty of the dream van­ished, and breath­less hor­ror and dis­gust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I had cre­at­ed, I rushed out of the room and con­tin­ued a long time tra­vers­ing my bed-cham­ber, unable to com­pose my mind to sleep. At length las­si­tude suc­ceed­ed to the tumult I had before endured, and I threw myself on the bed in my clothes, endeav­our­ing to seek a few moments of for­get­ful­ness. But it was in vain; I slept, indeed, but I was dis­turbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I saw Eliz­a­beth, in the bloom of health, walk­ing in the streets of Ingol­stadt. Delight­ed and sur­prised, I embraced her, but as I imprint­ed the first kiss on her lips, they became livid with the hue of death; her fea­tures appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead moth­er in my arms; a shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave-worms crawl­ing in the folds of the flan­nel. I start­ed from my sleep with hor­ror; a cold dew cov­ered my fore­head, my teeth chat­tered, and every limb became con­vulsed; when, by the dim and yel­low light of the moon, as it forced its way through the win­dow shut­ters, I beheld the wretch—the mis­er­able mon­ster whom I had cre­at­ed. He held up the cur­tain of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he mut­tered some inar­tic­u­late sounds, while a grin wrin­kled his cheeks. He might have spo­ken, but I did not hear; one hand was stretched out, seem­ing­ly to detain me, but I escaped and rushed down­stairs. I took refuge in the court­yard belong­ing to the house which I inhab­it­ed, where I remained dur­ing the rest of the night, walk­ing up and down in the great­est agi­ta­tion, lis­ten­ing atten­tive­ly, catch­ing and fear­ing each sound as if it were to announce the approach of the demo­ni­a­cal corpse to which I had so mis­er­ably giv­en life.

Oh! No mor­tal could sup­port the hor­ror of that coun­te­nance. A mum­my again endued with ani­ma­tion could not be so hideous as that wretch. I had gazed on him while unfin­ished; he was ugly then, but when those mus­cles and joints were ren­dered capa­ble of motion, it became a thing such as even Dante could not have conceived.

I passed the night wretched­ly. Some­times my pulse beat so quick­ly and hard­ly that I felt the pal­pi­ta­tion of every artery; at oth­ers, I near­ly sank to the ground through lan­guor and extreme weak­ness. Min­gled with this hor­ror, I felt the bit­ter­ness of dis­ap­point­ment; dreams that had been my food and pleas­ant rest for so long a space were now become a hell to me; and the change was so rapid, the over­throw so complete!

Morn­ing, dis­mal and wet, at length dawned and dis­cov­ered to my sleep­less and aching eyes the church of Ingol­stadt, its white steeple and clock, which indi­cat­ed the sixth hour. The porter opened the gates of the court, which had that night been my asy­lum, and I issued into the streets, pac­ing them with quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the wretch whom I feared every turn­ing of the street would present to my view. I did not dare return to the apart­ment which I inhab­it­ed, but felt impelled to hur­ry on, although drenched by the rain which poured from a black and com­fort­less sky.

I con­tin­ued walk­ing in this man­ner for some time, endeav­our­ing by bod­i­ly exer­cise to ease the load that weighed upon my mind. I tra­versed the streets with­out any clear con­cep­tion of where I was or what I was doing. My heart pal­pi­tat­ed in the sick­ness of fear, and I hur­ried on with irreg­u­lar steps, not dar­ing to look about me:

Like one who, on a lone­ly road,

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And, hav­ing once turned round, walks on,

And turns no more his head;

Because he knows a fright­ful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.

[Coleridge’s “Ancient Mariner”]

Con­tin­u­ing thus, I came at length oppo­site to the inn at which the var­i­ous dili­gences and car­riages usu­al­ly stopped. Here I paused, I knew not why; but I remained some min­utes with my eyes fixed on a coach that was com­ing towards me from the oth­er end of the street. As it drew near­er I observed that it was the Swiss dili­gence; it stopped just where I was stand­ing, and on the door being opened, I per­ceived Hen­ry Cler­val, who, on see­ing me, instant­ly sprung out. “My dear Franken­stein,” exclaimed he, “how glad I am to see you! How for­tu­nate that you should be here at the very moment of my alight­ing!”

Noth­ing could equal my delight on see­ing Cler­val; his pres­ence brought back to my thoughts my father, Eliz­a­beth, and all those scenes of home so dear to my rec­ol­lec­tion. I grasped his hand, and in a moment for­got my hor­ror and mis­for­tune; I felt sud­den­ly, and for the first time dur­ing many months, calm and serene joy. I wel­comed my friend, there­fore, in the most cor­dial man­ner, and we walked towards my col­lege. Cler­val con­tin­ued talk­ing for some time about our mutu­al friends and his own good for­tune in being per­mit­ted to come to Ingol­stadt. “You may eas­i­ly believe,” said he, “how great was the dif­fi­cul­ty to per­suade my father that all nec­es­sary knowl­edge was not com­prised in the noble art of book-keep­ing; and, indeed, I believe I left him incred­u­lous to the last, for his con­stant answer to my unwea­ried entreaties was the same as that of the Dutch school­mas­ter in The Vic­ar of Wake­field: ‘I have ten thou­sand florins a year with­out Greek, I eat hearti­ly with­out Greek.’ But his affec­tion for me at length over­came his dis­like of learn­ing, and he has per­mit­ted me to under­take a voy­age of dis­cov­ery to the land of knowledge.”

“It gives me the great­est delight to see you; but tell me how you left my father, broth­ers, and Elizabeth.”

“Very well, and very hap­py, only a lit­tle uneasy that they hear from you so sel­dom. By the by, I mean to lec­ture you a lit­tle upon their account myself. But, my dear Franken­stein,” con­tin­ued he, stop­ping short and gaz­ing full in my face, “I did not before remark how very ill you appear; so thin and pale; you look as if you had been watch­ing for sev­er­al nights.”

“You have guessed right; I have late­ly been so deeply engaged in one occu­pa­tion that I have not allowed myself suf­fi­cient rest, as you see; but I hope, I sin­cere­ly hope, that all these employ­ments are now at an end and that I am at length free.”

I trem­bled exces­sive­ly; I could not endure to think of, and far less to allude to, the occur­rences of the pre­ced­ing night. I walked with a quick pace, and we soon arrived at my col­lege. I then reflect­ed, and the thought made me shiv­er, that the crea­ture whom I had left in my apart­ment might still be there, alive and walk­ing about. I dread­ed to behold this mon­ster, but I feared still more that Hen­ry should see him. Entreat­ing him, there­fore, to remain a few min­utes at the bot­tom of the stairs, I dart­ed up towards my own room. My hand was already on the lock of the door before I rec­ol­lect­ed myself. I then paused, and a cold shiv­er­ing came over me. I threw the door forcibly open, as chil­dren are accus­tomed to do when they expect a spec­tre to stand in wait­ing for them on the oth­er side; but noth­ing appeared. I stepped fear­ful­ly in: the apart­ment was emp­ty, and my bed­room was also freed from its hideous guest. I could hard­ly believe that so great a good for­tune could have befall­en me, but when I became assured that my ene­my had indeed fled, I clapped my hands for joy and ran down to Clerval.

We ascend­ed into my room, and the ser­vant present­ly brought break­fast; but I was unable to con­tain myself. It was not joy only that pos­sessed me; I felt my flesh tin­gle with excess of sen­si­tive­ness, and my pulse beat rapid­ly. I was unable to remain for a sin­gle instant in the same place; I jumped over the chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud. Cler­val at first attrib­uted my unusu­al spir­its to joy on his arrival, but when he observed me more atten­tive­ly, he saw a wild­ness in my eyes for which he could not account, and my loud, unre­strained, heart­less laugh­ter fright­ened and aston­ished him.

“My dear Vic­tor,” cried he, “what, for God’s sake, is the mat­ter? Do not laugh in that man­ner. How ill you are! What is the cause of all this?”

“Do not ask me,” cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for I thought I saw the dread­ed spec­tre glide into the room; “he can tell. Oh, save me! Save me!” I imag­ined that the mon­ster seized me; I strug­gled furi­ous­ly and fell down in a fit.

Poor Cler­val! What must have been his feel­ings? A meet­ing, which he antic­i­pat­ed with such joy, so strange­ly turned to bit­ter­ness. But I was not the wit­ness of his grief, for I was life­less and did not recov­er my sens­es for a long, long time.

This was the com­mence­ment of a ner­vous fever 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 could 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 I 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 hand­writ­ing. 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, I believe.”

drea­ry ˈdrɪəri adj Caus­ing dejec­tion: dis­mal, drear, dis­con­so­late, dingy, gloomy, drab, sor­ry, grim, dark

behold bɪˈhəʊld pp, pt beheld bɪˈhɛld v To appre­hend some­thing by use of the eyes: see, per­ceive

toil tɔɪl n Work that is dif­fi­cult and unpleas­ant and that lasts for a long time: hard work, labor

infuse ɪnˈfjuːz v To imbue or inspire: fill, charge, inspire, per­vade, inun­date, imbue, suffuse

pat­ter ˈpætə v To make a quick suc­ces­sion of light soft tap­ping sounds: tap, beat, pat, pelt, spatter

dis­mal­ly ˈdɪzməli adj In a cheer­less or a dread­ful man­ner: drea­ri­ly, dreadfully

pane peɪn n A sheet of glass or oth­er trans­par­ent mate­r­i­al set into a win­dow or door.

glim­mer ˈɡlɪmə v A dim or inter­mit­tent flick­er or flash of light: gleam, shine, glow, sparkle, glit­ter, blink

extin­guish ɪksˈtɪŋg­wɪʃ v To cause to stop burn­ing or giv­ing light: put out, douse, quench, snuff

dull dʌl adj Not shiny.

con­vul­sive kənˈvʌl­sɪv adv Affect­ed by invol­un­tary jerky mus­cu­lar con­trac­tions; resem­bling a spasm: spas­mod­ic, spastic

agi­tate ˈæʤɪteɪt v To cause to move with vio­lence or sud­den force: stir, beat, shake, toss, rouse

delin­eate dɪˈlɪnieɪt v To describe or char­ac­ter­ize in words: out­line, describe, draw, pic­ture, paint, por­tray, sketch, depict, characterize,

wretch rɛʧ n Some­one that you feel sor­ry for or annoyed with.

endeav­our ɪnˈdɛvə v To attempt: essay, try, assay, seek

scarce­ly ˈskeəs­li adv Not quite, almost not: bare­ly, hardly

artery ˈɑːtᵊri n Any of the mus­cu­lar elas­tic tubes that form a branch­ing sys­tem and that car­ry blood away from the heart to the cells, tis­sues, and organs of the body.

lus­trous ˈlʌstrəs adj Hav­ing a sheen or glow: gleam­ing

pearly ˈpɜːli adj (Colour) Of the colour pearl: pale bluish-grey

lux­u­ri­ance lʌɡˈʒʊəriəns n The prop­er­ty of being lush and abun­dant and a plea­sure to the sens­es: lush­ness, volup­tuous­ness, abun­dance, copi­ous­ness, teemingness

hor­rid ˈhɒrɪd adj Dis­agree­able or unpleas­ant: ter­ri­ble, awful, nasty, dis­gust­ing, horrible

dun dʌn n An almost neu­tral brown­ish gray to dull gray­ish brown.

shriv­el ˈʃrɪvl v Decrease in size, as with a loss of mois­ture: shriv­el up, shrink, with­er, sear, wizen

com­plex­ion kəmˈ­plɛkʃən n The colour­ing of a person’s skin.

inan­i­mate ɪnˈænɪmɪt adj Not ani­mat­ed or ener­getic: dull

deprive dɪˈpraɪv v Pre­vent a per­son from hav­ing or using some­thing: rob of

ardour ˈɑːdə n A feel­ing of strong ener­gy or eager­ness: zeal

mod­er­a­tion ˌmɒdəˈreɪʃᵊn n The trait of avoid­ing excess­es: tem­per­ance, restraint, control

aspect ˈæspɛkt n The way some­thing or some­one looks: appear­ance, look, mien.

tra­verse ˈtrævə(ː)s v To move over, along, through, or across.

cham­ber ˈʧeɪm­bə n A room in a house, espe­cial­ly a bed­room: room

at length ⇒ After some time; even­tu­al­ly. final­ly, at last.

las­si­tude ˈlæsɪtjuːd n A feel­ing of lack of inter­est or ener­gy: list­less­ness, languor

tumult ˈtjuːmʌlt n An inter­rup­tion of pub­lic peace: dis­tur­bance, com­mo­tion, tur­bu­lence, fuss, uproar, stir

in vain ⇒ To no avail; with­out success.

Ingol­stadt ⇒ An inde­pen­dent city on the Danube in Upper Bavaria, Germany.

imprint ɪmˈprɪnt v To pro­duce (a mark or pat­tern) on a sur­face by pres­sure: stamp

livid ˈlɪvɪd adj Dis­coloured: pale, colour­less, lurid

hue hjuː n Gra­da­tion of a col­or: tint

corpse kɔːps n A dead body, espe­cial­ly of a human being: cadav­er

shroud ʃraʊd n A cloth used to wrap a body for bur­ial: cere­ment, wind­ing-clothes, wind­ing-sheet, pall

flan­nel ˈflænᵊl n A soft light woolen fab­ric; used for clothing.

dew ˈdjuː n Water droplets con­densed from the air, usu­al­ly at night, onto cool sur­faces: con­den­sate, con­den­sa­tion {dew_drop}

chat­ter ˈʧætə v To click quick­ly and repeat­ed­ly: brat­tle, clack, clat­ter, rattle

con­vulse kənˈvʌls v To cause to suf­fer vio­lent, spas­mod­ic con­trac­tions of the mus­cles: shake, agi­tate

shut­ter ˈʃʌtəz n A hinged cov­er or screen for a win­dow, usu­al­ly fit­ted with louvers.

inar­tic­u­late ˌɪnɑːˈtɪkjʊlɪt adj Not able to express ideas clear­ly and effec­tive­ly in speech or writ­ing: not artic­u­late

wrin­kle ˈrɪŋkᵊl v To draw up into wrin­kles: puck­er

detain dɪˈteɪn v To main­tain restrain­ing con­trol and pos­ses­sion of: hold, hold up

inhab­it ɪnˈhæbɪt v To live or dwell in (a place), as peo­ple or ani­mals: occu­py, pop­u­late, reside in

42agi­ta­tion ˌæʤɪˈteɪʃᵊn n Extreme emo­tion­al dis­tur­bance: tur­moil, commotion

demo­ni­a­cal ˌdiːməˈ­naɪəkᵊl adj Fren­zied as if pos­sessed by a demon: amok, amuck, berserk, demo­ni­ac, possessed

mor­tal ˈmɔːtl n A human being: indi­vid­ual, per­son, some­body, some­one, soul

coun­te­nance ˈkaʊn­tᵊnəns n The appear­ance con­veyed by a person’s face: vis­age

mum­my ˈmʌ­mi n A body embalmed and dried and wrapped for burial.{mummy}

endue ɪnˈd­juː v Give qual­i­ties or abil­i­ties to: endow, gift, indue, invest, empower

hideous ˈhɪdiəs adj Repul­sive, espe­cial­ly to the sight: revolt­ing, ugly, repul­sive, mon­strous, grotesque, grue­some, unsightly

gaze greɪz v To look steadi­ly, intent­ly, and with fixed atten­tion: stare, look

Dante Alighieri ⇒ An Ital­ian poet, writer, and philoso­pher. His Divine Com­e­dy, is wide­ly con­sid­ered one of the most impor­tant poems of the Mid­dle Ages and the great­est lit­er­ary work in the Ital­ian lan­guage. It is divid­ed into three parts, one of which is Infer­no

wretched­ly ˈrɛʧɪdli adj In a deplorable or despi­ca­ble man­ner: mis­er­ably

pal­pi­ta­tion ˌpælpɪˈteɪʃᵊn n Irreg­u­lar, rapid beat­ing or pul­sa­tion of the heart: beat, pul­sa­tion, pulse, throb

lan­guor ˈlæŋgə n Defi­cien­cy in men­tal and phys­i­cal activ­i­ty: lethar­gy, stu­por, tor­por, languidness

min­gle ˈmɪŋgl v To mix togeth­er but still stay rec­og­niz­able: mix, com­mix, uni­fy, amal­ga­mate blend, inter­min­gle, com­min­gle, inter­mix, inter­weave, inter­lace, com­bine, merge, fuse, unite

over­throw ˌəʊvəˈθrəʊ n The act of dis­turb­ing the mind or body: derange­ment, upset 

dis­mal ˈdɪzməl Dark and depress­ing, marked by lit­tle hope­ful­ness: dis­con­so­late, gloomy, dingy, drab, grim

steeple ˈstiːpᵊl n A tow­er ris­ing above the roof of a build­ing, such as a church, and usu­al­ly sur­mount­ed by a spire.

asy­lum əˈsaɪləm n A place offer­ing pro­tec­tion and safe­ty: shel­ter, refuge, haven, retreat

impel ɪmˈpɛl v To urge to action through moral pres­sure: dri­ve, prompt

drench drɛnʧ v To wet through and through: soak, wet, drown

tra­verse ˈtrævə(ː)s v To move over, along, through, or across: cross

pal­pi­tate ˈpælpɪteɪt v To beat with exces­sive rapid­i­ty: throb, beat, pound, pul­sate, pulse

doth dʌθ v (Archa­ic) A third per­son sin­gu­lar present tense of do.

dread drɛd n Fear­ful expec­ta­tion or antic­i­pa­tion: fore­bod­ing, pre­sen­ti­ment, pre­mo­ni­tion, fear

tread trɛd v To step, walk, or tram­ple so as to press, crush, or injure some­thing: squash, step on, trample

“The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” ⇒ A rime by Samuel Tay­lor Coleridge about a wan­der­ing sailor, who was cursed by the crew because his slay­ing of the alba­tross is caus­ing their deaths, when he and his crew near­ly die of thirst; mariner ˈmærɪnə n A per­son who directs or assists in the nav­i­ga­tion of a ship: sailor

dili­gence ˈdɪlɪʤəns n A large stagecoach.

car­riage ˈkærɪʤ n A com­fort­able wheeled vehi­cle for con­vey­ing per­sons, usu­al­ly drawn by hors­es: freight

draw near ⇒ To get close to some­one or some­thing, either lit­er­al­ly or figuratively.

exclaim ɪksˈk­leɪm v To cry out or speak sud­den­ly and vehe­ment­ly, as in sur­prise, strong emo­tion, or protest: call out, cry out, out­cry, shout, cry

very ˈvɛri adj Pre­cise; particular.

alight əˈlaɪt v To get down, as from a vehi­cle: dis­mount

rec­ol­lec­tion ˌrɛkəˈlɛkʃən n The abil­i­ty to recall past occur­rences: reten­tion, remembrance

serene sɪˈriːn adj Con­tent or com­posed: untrou­bled, calm, peace­ful, tran­quil, com­posed, sedate, placid, undisturbed

cor­dial ˈkɔːdiəl adj Pleas­ant and friend­ly: good-natured, ami­able

incred­u­lous ɪnˈkrɛd­jʊləs adj Refus­ing or reluc­tant to believe: skep­ti­cal, unbe­liev­ing, dis­be­liev­ing, questioning

unwea­ried ˌʌnˈwɪərid adj With unre­duced ener­gy: inex­haustible, tire­less, untir­ing, weariless

entreaty ɪnˈtriːti n Earnest or urgent request: appeal, prayer, plea, suit, request

The Vic­ar of Wake­field ⇒ A nov­el by Anglo-Irish writer Oliv­er Gold­smith (1728–1774), pub­lished in 1766. It was one of the most pop­u­lar and wide­ly read 18th-cen­tu­ry nov­els among Vic­to­ri­ans; vic­ar ˈvɪkə n An Angli­can parish priest in a parish where his­tor­i­cal­ly some­one oth­er than the priest was enti­tled to the tithes.

florin ˈflɒrɪn n Any of sev­er­al gold coins sim­i­lar to the Flo­ren­tine florin, for­mer­ly used in Europe.

by the by ⇒ Inci­den­tal­ly; on a side note; by the way. An inter­jec­tion meant to casu­al­ly intro­duce or empha­size addi­tion­al infor­ma­tion in the conversation.

on one’s account ⇒ Because of or for the ben­e­fit of some­one else.

watch wɒʧ v To stay awake at night while serv­ing as a guard, sen­tinel, or watcher.

exces­sive­ly ɪkˈsɛsɪv adj To a degree exceed­ing nor­mal or prop­er lim­its: over­ly, to a fault, too

allude əˈluːd v To make an indi­rect ref­er­ence: hint, inti­mate, suggest

shiv­er ˈʃɪvə v To shake slight­ly because of cold, fear, etc: trem­ble, shud­der, vibrate, shake, quake

dread drɛd v To fear some­thing that will or might happen.

entreat ɪnˈtriːt v To make an earnest request: beg, pray, appeal, implore, plead with

dart dɑːt v To thrust or move sud­den­ly or rapid­ly: dash, scoot, scud, flash, shoot, whip

rec­ol­lect ˌriːkəˈlɛkt v To renew an image or thought in the mind: recall, remem­ber, bethink, call to mind, think

spec­tre ˈspɛk­tə n A ghost­ly appear­ing fig­ure: appari­tion, fan­tasm, phan­tasm, phan­tas­ma, phan­tom, specter

befall bɪˈfɔːl pp befell, pt befall­en n Occur or be the case in the course of events or by chance: hap­pen

clap klæp v To strike the palms of the hands against one anoth­er to make a sound, usu­al­ly repeat­ed­ly and to express approval: applaud

ascend əˈsɛnd v To go or move upward: rise, climb, mount

tin­gle ˈtɪŋɡᵊl v To have the sen­sa­tion of being tapped or poked light­ly with many nee­dles in a cer­tain area of the body, often caused by the cold, a sharp slap, or excitement

excess ɪkˈsɛs n Some­thing in a larg­er amount than is need­ed, allowed, or usu­al: sur­feit, sur­plus, over­dose, over­flow, over­load, plethora

at first ⇒ In the beggining.

attribute əˈtrɪb­juːt v To regard as result­ing from a spec­i­fied cause: ascribe, cred­it, refer, trace, assign

account for some­thing ⇒ To give an expla­na­tion of some­thing, typ­i­cal­ly at the request of some­one who wants to fill a gap in information.

unre­strained ˌʌn­rɪˈstreɪnd adj Not con­trolled or held in check; immod­er­ate: uncon­strained, uncontrolled,

for God’s sake ⇒ An oath of exas­per­a­tion, annoy­ance, frus­tra­tion, anger, or surprise.

for fɔː cj Because; since.

glide glaɪd v To move gen­tly and slow­ly into place: slip, slide, ease

furi­ous­ly ˈfjʊərɪəs­li adv In a man­ner marked by extreme or vio­lent ener­gy: fierce­ly, fran­ti­cal­ly, fren­zied­ly, hard, strenuously

fit fɪt n A seizure or con­vul­sion, espe­cial­ly one caused by epilep­sy: seizure, attack, bout, spasm, con­vul­sion, paroxysm

con­fine kənˈ­faɪn v Place lim­its on extent or access: con­strain, restrict, lim­it, bound

unfit­ness ʌnˈfɪt­nəs adj Not in good phys­i­cal or men­tal health.

wretched ˈrɛʧɪd adj In a deplorable state of dis­tress or mis­for­tune: mis­er­able

spare speə v To refrain from harm­ing, injur­ing, destroy­ing, or killing: have mer­cy on, par­don, have pity on, release

con­ceal kənˈsiːl n To hide some­thing or pre­vent­ing it from being known: hide

in real­i­ty ⇒ Actu­al­ly; real­ly; in fact.

unbound­ed ʌnˈbaʊndɪd adj Seem­ing­ly bound­less in amount, num­ber, degree, or espe­cial­ly extent: bound­less, lim­it­less, infinite

unremit­ting ˌʌn­rɪˈmɪtɪŋ adj Unin­ter­rupt­ed in time and indef­i­nite­ly long con­tin­u­ing: inces­sant, nev­er-end­ing, cease­less, per­pet­u­al, unceas­ing, con­stant, persistent

bestow bɪˈstəʊ v To give for­mal­ly or offi­cial­ly: present, grant

rave reɪv v To speak wild­ly, irra­tional­ly, or inco­her­ent­ly: rant, rage, roar

inces­sant­ly ɪnˈsɛs­ntli adv With­out inter­rup­tion: con­stant­ly, con­tin­u­ous­ly, end­less­ly, ever­last­ing, perpetually

wan­der­ing ˈwɒndᵊrɪŋ n Dis­or­dered thoughts or utter­ances; incoherencies

per­ti­nac­i­ty ˌpɜːtɪˈnæsəti n The qual­i­ty or state of being stub­born­ly unyield­ing: dogged­ness, per­se­ver­ance, per­sis­ten­cy, tena­cious­ness, persistence

recur rɪˈkɜː v To hap­pen or occur again or repeat­ed­ly: repeat, relapse

by degrees ⇒ Grad­u­al­ly, by suc­ces­sive steps or stages.

relapse rɪˈlæps n A return to a for­mer state, espe­cial­ly after appar­ent improve­ment: regres­sion, rever­sion, back­slid­ing, lapse

bud bʌd n A small pro­tu­ber­ance on a stem or branch, some­times enclosed in pro­tec­tive scales and con­tain­ing an unde­vel­oped leaf, flower, or leafy shoot.

con­va­les­cence ˌkɒn­vəˈlɛsns n Grad­ual return to health and strength after ill­ness: recov­ery, reha­bil­i­ta­tion, recuperation,

revive rɪˈ­vaɪv v Give new life or ener­gy to or restore from a depressed, inac­tive, or unused state.

bosom ˈbʊzəm n A person’s breast or chest: chest, breast

gloom ɡluːm n An atmos­phere of melan­choly or depres­sion: depres­sion, despair, mis­ery, sad­ness, sor­row, blues, woe, melan­choly, unhap­pi­ness, des­o­la­tion, despon­den­cy, dejection

repay rɪˈpeɪ v To give back, either in return or in com­pen­sa­tion: restore, com­pen­sate, reim­burse, recompense

remorse rɪˈmɔːs n Moral anguish aris­ing from repen­tance for past mis­deeds; bit­ter regret: repen­tance, rue

dis­com­pose ˌdɪskəmˈpəʊz v To put into a state of dis­or­der: agi­tate, both­er, dis­qui­et, dis­turb, per­turb, upset

com­pose your­self ⇒ Calm you­self; stay still; pull your­self together.

tem­per ˈtɛm­pə n A char­ac­ter­is­tic state of feel­ing: mood, humour, atti­tude, disposition