“I picked up the book again, and this time it opened at the title-page, and I read the dedication. ‘Max—from Rebecca. May 17th,’ written in a curious, slanting hand. A little blob of ink marred the white page opposite, as though the writer, in impatience, had shaken her pen to make the ink flow freely. And then, as it bubbled through the nib, it came a little thick, so that the name Rebecca stood out black and strong, the tall and sloping R dwarfing the other letters.”

—Daphne du Maurier, Rebecca, 1938.