They get so frightened by a picture of Rebecca that they run away again, and then on a whim return to buy a house in - of all places- the Cotswolds, to be terrified all over again by Mrs Danvers and Jack Favell. This timid sequel begins when Maxim and his wife return to England for Maxim's sister's funeral. But though we sympathised with Maxim's desire for a companion in the empty mausoleum of Manderley, few readers have ever felt the need for a successor to Rebecca. One feels the same amused pity for Mrs de Winter's dreams of equality ('Daphne du Maurier would have approved,' says the dust-jacket) as we did for Mrs de Winter's silly idea, in that Monte Carlo hotel, of stepping into the first wife's shoes with ease. The second wife was seduced by that immortal line, 'I'm asking you to marry me, you little fool,' and Susan Hill by the immortal offer of pounds 650,000. It would be difficult for Mrs de Winter to be anything but a poor, gauche substitute for her incomparable predecessor. Of course sequels, like second wives, have to run the gauntlet of odious comparisons. I left as soon as I could, but it will never seem the same again. I peered through the gates, heart beating with anticipation, but instead of grand lovers playing out their romantic struggles, I saw two middle-aged chaps in a Gloucestershire garden having a squabble.
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