Her dress is in tatters--as is her mind, for that matter--but still she runs. She tells herself that if only she could get away from him for a moment, she could compose her thoughts, concoct a plan, tell the world.
But she will never get away from him. He will always be constantly on her heels, following her, lurking in every shadow, even if her pursuer is at times nothing more than the product of her own fevered imagination.
You are mine, Anne Catherick, he said as he held her down. You are a servant, and this is what a servant does. She serves. Know your place, girl.
She must get to Laura. If she can warn Laura, tell her her secret, then . . . she doesn’t know. Her jumbled thoughts refused to line up. Still she keeps running, compelled by a force she can’t name, but doesn’t have to be able to name. Truth remains even when it is hidden.
If there is any hope of salvation, it is in Laura.
This is all you are good for, Anne Catherick, he said as he pulled off her dress. A lamentable waste of God’s gift of life, such a poor, wretched, useless creature, but at least you are good for this.
She had been afraid to fight then, but now she fights. Then she had known nothing but submission, but now her insanity has taught her fury, violence. Mad, they whisper in the asylums. A danger to herself and others. Her madness has set her free.
You won’t get away with this, Percy Glyde, she said, but he only laughed. Of course I will, girl. Of course I will.
Deep inside her is a fifteen year old who just wants her mother, her sanity, her innocence.
These are things she will never have.