"Ah, you are thinking of Frankenstein, Miss Tugnutt. By Mary Shelley. Shelley's wife, you know. A very silly story."
"Dreadfully silly. Frankenstein's monster is eight feet tall. You'd think that would make him a bit conspicuous, wouldn't you? Not a bit of it," said Mr Cropper, chuckling. "He hides in a hut adjoining a remote cottage where he remains undetected for several months. He watches the occupants through a chink in the wall, and learns their language so well that he can speak it in a style indistinguishable from theirs. He also – still depending on the chink – learns to read. His books include Plutarch's Lives and Paradise Lost. He becomes widely informed in geography, metaphysics and natural philosophy. He achieves in a few months what it took mankind, through the more laborious process of evolution, thousands of years –"...
"How did Frankenstein make him?"
"Ah! we never know.... The author simply assures us that "the secret is too terrible to be told."
"An easy way out!"
"Yes, indeed. It is a very silly story."
"Why did anyone ever read it, Mr Cropper?"
"Because, my dear Miss Tugnutt, men have a great need for silly stories."
I do enjoy Kenneth Lillington.