"Why was I born ?" She walked the room almost like a thing mad and caged.
"Why was I thrown into the world ?" striking her breast.

"Why was I made so--and not one to watch or care through those mad years?
To be given a body like this--and tossed to the wolves." She turned to Anne, her arms outstretched, and so stood white and strange and beauteous as a statue, with drops like great pearls running down her lovely cheeks, and she caught her breath sobbingly, like a child.
"I was thrown to them," she wailed piteously, "and they harried me--and left the marks of their great teeth--and of the scars I cannot rid myself--and since it was my fate--pronounced from my first hour--why was not this," clutching her breast, "left hard as 'twas at first?
Not a woman's--not a woman's, but a she-cub's.

Ah! 'twas not just--not just that it should be so!" Anne slipped from her bed and ran to her, falling upon her knees and clinging to her, weeping bitterly.
"Poor heart!" she cried.

"Poor, dearest heart!" Her touch and words seemed to recall Clorinda to herself.

She started as if wakened from a dream, and drew her form up rigid.
"I have gone mad," she said.