On a dreary night in November I collected my instruments and saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open. It breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs. I had selected its features as beautiful. Beautiful! Its yellow skin barely covered the muscles beneath, its hair was lustrous black, its teeth pearly white, but these things only made more horrible its watery eyes and shrivelled complexion. I rushed out of the room and could not sleep. When I came back at dawn the creature was gone. For months I lay ill with a nervous fever, and my friend Henry Clerval nursed me without ever learning the reason. I said nothing to anyone. I believed, as long as I could, that the thing I had made had wandered away into the world and would never trouble me or mine.