A strange page in the book of human life is this Thought I, as he left the room.
That man, the perpetrator of so many hundred murders, thinks on the past with
satisfaction and pleasure; nay he takes a pride in recalling the events of his
life, almost every one of which is a murder, and glories in describing the
minutest particulars of his victims, and the share he had in their destruction,
with scarcely a symptom of remorse Once or twice only has he winced while
telling his fearful story, and what agitated him most at the commencement of his
tale I have yet to