Now was I stupified with tenfold wonder in contemplating myself.

Was I not likewise transformed from rational and human into a creature of nameless and fearful attributes?
Was I not transported to the brink of the same abyss?
Ere a new day should come, my hands might be embrued in blood, and my remaining life be consigned to a dungeon and chains.
With moral sensibility like mine, no wonder that this new dread was more insupportable than the anguish I had lately endured.

Grief carries its own antidote along with it.

When thought becomes merely a vehicle of pain, its progress must be stopped.

Death is a cure which nature or ourselves must administer: To this cure I now looked forward with gloomy satisfaction.
My silence could not conceal from my uncle the state of my thoughts.
He made unwearied efforts to divert my attention from views so pregnant with danger.