When he turned, Claire didn't feel fear nor did she feel disgust. Granted, he was most certainly unlike anything she'd ever quite seen before, and in some way she supposed she could understand how others might have reacted with abject terror. However she'd seen a lot, been through a lot, and aside from that was such a fan of the novel featuring him that all she could feel was curiosity and wonder at the sight of him. This was him, the unnamed creation (she'd never felt right calling him a monster - it wasn't as though he could help who or what he was) that Frankenstein had built. The one that so many had begun referring to as Frankenstein, in fact, yet careful reading of the novel showed that wasn't his name.
As he'd said, he had none.
"Don't apologize," she finally spoke softly. "There's nothing to apologize for." She paused, trying to figure out a way to tell him how she knew the name of the man who had created him without sounding as though it was some sort of horrible joke. Finally, much like with the guessing of the name Frankenstein, she just said it.
"There's a book, where I'm from. I-It's probably here too, actually," she began, staring at his profile as she refused to glance away lest he take it as a sign of her disgust. "It's called Frankenstein and it tells..." She paused, drawing in a breath and letting it out in a fast puff of air.
"Well, it tells about you, actually. How you came to be. The things that happened." She absently tucked a lock of her blond hair behind an ear and finally looked away, almost embarrassed as she admitted, "I've probably read it at least a dozen times."