Oh my goodness…and so came to mind a passage from "The Man Who Laughs" by Victor Hugo:

Thus hatred had made a mistake. The persecutors of Gwynplaine, whoever they might have been--the deadly enigma, from wherever it came--had missed their aim. They had intended to drive him to desperation; they had succeeded in driving him into enchantment. They had affianced him beforehand to a healing wound. They had predestined him for consolation by an affliction. The pincers of the executioner had softly changed into the delicately molded hand of a girl. Gwynplaine was horrible; artificially horrible--made horrible by the hand of man…

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