“Hush,” Jill says.

“—and through the cracks in its unplaned boards I could distinctly see and hear what was going on, without being seen. Esther’s wrists were firmly tied, and the twisted rope was fastened to a strong iron staple in a heavy wooden beam above, near the fireplace. Here she stood on a bench, her arms tightly drawn above her head. Her back and shoulders were perfectly bare. Behind her stood old master, cowhide in hand, pursuing his barbarous work with all manner of harsh, coarse, and tantalizing epithets. He was cruelly deliberate, and protracted the torture as one who was delighted with the agony of his victim. Again and again he drew the hateful scourge through his hand, adjusting it with a view of dealing the most pain-giving blow his strength and skill could inflict. Poor Esther had never before been severely whipped. Her shoulders were plump and tender. Each blow, vigorously laid on, brought screams from her as well as blood. ‘Have mercy! Oh, mercy!’ she cried. ‘I won’t do so no more.’ But her piercing cries seemed only to increase his fury.” The red mark stops but Rabbit sweeps on to the end of the chapter. “The whole scene, with all its attendant circumstances, was revolting and shocking to the last degree, and when the motives for the brutal castigation are known, language has no power to convey a just sense of its dreadful criminality. After laying on I dare not say how many stripes, old master untied his suffering victim. When let down she could scarcely stand. From my heart I pitied her, and child as I was, and new to such scenes, the shock was tremendous. I was terrified, hushed, stunned, and bewildered. The scene here described was often repeated, for Edward and Esther continued to meet, notwithstanding all efforts to prevent their meeting.”

Skeeter turns to Jill and slaps her sharply, as a child would, on the chest. “Don’t hush me, you cunt.”

“I wanted to hear the passage.”

“How’d it turn you on, cunt?”

“I liked the way Harry read it. With feeling.”

“Fuck your white feelings.”

“Hey, easy,” Rabbit says, helplessly, seeing that violence is due.

Skeeter is wild. Keeping his one hand on her shoulder as a brace, with the other he reaches to her throat and rips the neck of her white dress forward. The cloth is tough; Jill’s head snaps far forward before the rip is heard. She recoils back into the sofa, her eyes expressionless; her little tough-tipped tits bounce in the torn V.

Rabbit’s instinct is not to rescue her but to shield Nelson. He drops the book on the cobbler’s bench and puts his body between the boy and the sofa. “Go upstairs.”

Nelson, stunned, bewildered, has risen to his feet; he moans, “He’ll kill her, Dad.” His cheeks are flushed, his eyes are sunk.

“No he won’t. He’s just high. She’s all right.”

“Oh shit, shit,” the child repeats in desperation; his face caves into crying.