“Frankenstein!” said Watson. “I remember that name. Was there not an account—written by the wife of the poet Shelley, I believe? Frankenstein: A Biography of the Modern Prometheus, or some such. I remember reading it in my university days. But Miss Rappaccini, that was a popular novel, not a scientific treatise. It gave me a proper fright, but as a medical student, I considered it the worst kind of bunk.” “No,” said Beatrice. “It is no more bunk than I am. The public may have considered it fiction, but the members of the Société knew that Frankenstein had existed, and he had created a monster.
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