Rebecca is a book about a young woman who is too frightened to ask her husband a question or even have a first name. She spends the entire novel very nearly having tea, then thinking better of it.

Only the first Mrs. de Winter deserved to have tea.

You are sitting at a sunny French café, but there are shadows in your heart.

You have escaped disaster, and things have for the most part ended well, and yet you cannot shake a sense of dread and foreboding.

Someone is crushing your spirit. You try as hard as you can not to inconvenience them while they do it.

MARY YELLAN: my name is Mary and I think being a girl is worse than genocide
JEM: women are terrible but you absolutely have to kiss them
MARY YELLAN: I'd rather be a ship rat or on fire or a pile of greasy rags named Scumface

Was sir in awareness of the fact that beloved suspense novelist Daphne du Maurier once wrote a horror story about the evils of sex toys? That she did it in 1937, after which it was lost for over 70 years? That it is in all its availability for sir's earliest convenience, if he will slash my throatlet for being so bold?

"You thought I loved Rebecca? You thought I killed her, loving her? I hated her, I tell you. Our marriage was a farce from the very first. She was vicious, damnable, rotten through and through. We never loved each other, never had one moment of happiness together. Rebecca was incapable of love, of tenderness, of decency. On a certain warm day in summer Rebecca's thirst exceeded the bounds of propriety. When she asked a third time…