While these events were transpiring Number Thirteen
was pacing restlessly back and forth the length of
the workshop. But a short time before he had had his
author--the author of his misery--within the four walls
of his prison, and yet he had not wreaked the vengeance
that was in his heart. Twice he had been on the point
of springing upon the man, but both times the other's
eyes had met his and something which he was not able to
comprehend had stayed him. Now that the other had gone
and he was alone contemplation of the hideous wrong that
had been done loosed again the flood gates of his pent rage.

The thought that he had been made by this man--made in
the semblance of a human being, yet denied by the
manner of his creation a place among the lowest of
Nature's creatures--filled him with fury, but it was
not this thought that drove him to the verge of
madness. It was the knowledge, suggested by von Horn,
that Virginia Maxon would look upon him in horror,
as a grotesque and loathsome monstrosity.

He had no standard and no experience whereby he might
classify his sentiments toward this wonderful creature.
All he knew was that his life would be complete could
he be near her always--see her and speak with her
daily. He had thought of her almost constantly since
those short, delicious moments that he had held her in
his arms. Again and again he experienced in
retrospection the exquisite thrill that had run through
every fiber of his being at the sight of her averted