Falkner by Mary Shelley

Neville returned home -- he paused at the drawing-room door -- a slight noise indicated that his father was within -- his hand was on the lock, but he retreated; he would not intrude uncalled for -- he wandered through the dark, empty rooms, till a bell rang. Sir Boyvill inquired for him -- he hurried into his presence -- he devoured the expression of his countenance with his eyes, trying to read the thought within. Sir Boyvill's face was usually stamped with an unvarying expression of cold self-possession, mingled with sarcasm. These feelings were now at their height -- his aged countenance, withered and deep lined, was admirably calculated to depict the concentrated, disdain that sat upon his lips and elevated his brows. He pointed to the papers before him, and said in a composed, yet hollow voice, "Take these away -- read, for it is necessary you should -- the amplified confession of the murderer."

Gerard's blood ran cold. "Yet why call it a confession," continued Sir Boyvill, his assumed contempt rising into angry scorn; "from the beginning to the end it is a lie. He would varnish over his unparalleled guilt -- he would shelter himself from its punishment, but in vain. Read, Gerard -- read and be satisfied. I have wronged your mother -- she was innocent -- murdered. Be assured that her vindication shall be heard as loudly as her accusation, and that her destroyer shall die to expiate her death."