Book: Rebecca. Page 1

I couldn't deal with the dead Rebecca. She was stronger than me. If Maxim loved any one woman went to visit her, or eating, sometimes would stay with her overnight, I would fight. This woman could have grown old, to annoy him, to become indifferent, and then my victory would be complete. But dead Rebecca, I could not fight. She continued to stay young, beautiful and charming, and it was irreparable.

He never belonged to me, he belonged to Rebecca.

What is he thinking? Probably that wedding gift presented to me, destroyed the gift presented on the same occasion Rebecca.

All the husbands of beautiful women are jealous, right? And some of them can't resist not to pose as Othello. So they are arranged. I don't blame them. I'm sorry for them. I'm a socialist of a kind, I do not understand why men can't share their women instead of killing them. Does it matter? Your pleasure and so get. A beautiful woman is not like a car tire, it is not demolished. The more she move, the softer the rolls.

Resentment and jealousy can cope. Would come a day when a woman this old would have changed, faded, and Maxim would have stopped loving her. But Rebecca would never grow old. It will always be the same. I could not overcome. She's stronger than me.

Somewhere above me in the trees cooed the pigeons. The peace and quiet. Why, I wonder, when you're alone, all you think are much prettier. How commonplace and stupid it all here would look like, if near me was a friend, someone with whom I went to school and she would say: "incidentally, I saw the other day Hilda. Remember the one who played so well in tennis. She is married with two children." And Bluebell would go unnoticed, and the pigeons above us - unheard.

Life is too short to waste it on the invitation letters.

So I'd like to live forever in peaceful conversation under the branches of a chestnut tree. I was afraid of the past afraid of the future. Stop forever this moment. But for the rest it wasn't the image of the iron eternity, but only a passing moment of everyday life. They weren't as intimidated as I am.

Easy to be calm and mellow, I thought, if you have not suffered the blows of fate, if not bathed in bitter tears, not knowing where to go from despair...

Beatrice was tall and handsome, but her beauty was harsh, like women, well versed in horses and dogs, well able to cook.

I just replaced the first - was sitting in the chair that was previously occupied by she poured coffee from the same silver coffee pot and just stroked the dog's ears. Jasper put his head on my knees, I shuddered and thought, that'd do Rebecca? Probably would have given him sugar.

I felt like a child first came to the school as a servant all his life living in the village and trapped in a strange house.

Declarations of love are not easy, they need the right mood and the right environment.

His book of poems lay on the bed. It opened on the page with the dedication: "to max from Rebecca. May 17." I carefully cut out knife this page so that nothing was noticeable, and ripped it to shreds. But scraps could be seen sliding, rapid handwriting. I gathered the pieces, brought them a match and watched as they turned to ash. I started a new life, destroying the memories of his former love.