Last night I dreamt of Manderley again. To be honest, I mostly dreamt of Dannie, or, I should say, Mrs. Danvers. And really, we weren’t at Manderley at all. We practically never are. She and I were on a little shingle just past the boathouse, at low tide. I had gathered scraps of wood from a recent wreck and built them into a fire where we sat warming ourselves, wrapped in woolen blankets and roasting sausages. (No, of course we weren’t wrapped in roasting sausages! The idea!)

Gazing across the lively fire, I saw its flames reflected in Dannie’s eyes as she laughed aloud at some snide comment I had made. It was a look I would never forget.

Most of my dreams lately have been somehow related to old movies, and more and more of them are in black and white. I wonder if I am becoming somehow like a dog? It’s said that they see in black and white; perhaps they dream that way, too. I wonder, do I also make little yipping noises when I sleep, or twitch as if I were running? Alas, I may never know. I sleep alone.