Life was a series of greetings and farewells, one was always saying good-bye to something, to someone.

He stole horses' you'll say to yourself, 'and he didn't care for women; and but for my pride I'd have been with him now.

There was never an accident.Rebecca was not drowned at all. I killed her.I shot Rebecca in the cottage in the cove.I carried her body to the cabin, and took the boat out that night and sunk it there, where they found it today.It's Rebecca who's lying dead there on the cabin floor.Will you look into my eyes and tell me that you love me now?

The road to Manderley lay ahead. There was no moon. The sky above our heads was inky black. But the sky on the horizon was not dark at all. It was shot with crimson, like a splash of blood. And the ashes blew towards us with the salt wind from the sea.

No, Mary had no illusions about romance. Falling in love was a pretty name for it, that was all.

Dead men tell no tales, Mary.

Living as we do in an age of noise and bluster, success is now measured accordingly. We must all be seen, and heard, and on the air.