If only there could be an invention that bottled up a memory, like scent. And it never faded, and it never got stale. And then, when one wanted it, the bottle could be uncorked, and it would be like living the moment all over again.

I could not ask forgiveness for something I had not done. As scapegoat, I could only bear the fault.

Will you look into my eyes and tell me that you love me now?

Why, he wondered, should he remember her suddenly, on such a day, watching the rain falling on the apple trees?

Writing every book is like a purge; at the end of it one is empty ... like a dry shell on the beach, waiting for the tide to come in again.

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.

What about the hero of The House on the Strand? What did it mean when he dropped the telephone at the end of the book? I don't really know, but I rather think he was going to be paralysed for life. Don't you?