Every Moment Was A Precious Thing, Having

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.

I Wondered Why It Was That Places Are So Much Lovelier When One Is Alone.

Dead Men Tell No Tales, Mary.

[referring To The Birds:] Nat Listened To The Tearing Sound Of Splintering Wood, And Wondered How Many Million Years Of Memory Were Stored In Those Little Brains, Behind The Stabbing Beaks, The Piercing Eyes, Now Giving Them This Instinct To Destroy Mankind With All The Deft Precision Of Machines.

How Lacking In Intuition Men Could Be In Persuading Themselves That Mending Some Stranger's Socks, And Attending To His Comfort, Could Content A Woman.