marianne, calm and determined, walks towards the top of the hill. the wind whips and plucks at her hair and skirts.
rain has started to pour down. marianne walks on regardless.
marianne has reached the top. soaked to the skin, she stands with the storm raging around her, staring at the spires of combe magna, the place that would have been her home. rain streaks her face and the wind whips her hair about her. through frozen lips she whispers:
marianne stares at combe magna, a strange smile playing about her lips. then she calls to willoughby as though he were near. the effect is eerie, unworldly.
brandon runs up the hillside as though the devil were at his heels.