Last night I dreamt I was reading Rebecca again. Slouching in an old armchair, I thumbed through the dog-eared pages, skipping certain passages that seemed over-written, either choked with adjectives or clinging desperately to semi-colons. These are same bad habits my prose exhibits, I thought.
A sentence reminded me of a line from T. S. Eliot; another of Virginia Woolf; yet another of Dante as translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
I did not realise du Maurier had copied so many (did you see what I did there?)