Chapter 8
Victor, when falsehood can look so like the truth, who can assure themselves of certain happiness?
I, not in deed, but in effect, was the true murderer.
the wounded dear dragging its fainting limbs to some untrodden brake, there to gaze upon the arrow which had pierced it, and to die, was but a type of me.
Victor, when falsehood can look so like the truth, who can assure themselves of certain happiness?
I, not in deed, but in effect, was the true murderer.
the wounded dear dragging its fainting limbs to some untrodden brake, there to gaze upon the arrow which had pierced it, and to die, was but a type of me.