9 hours 2 minutes
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Nochyu mne snova prisnilsya etot pylayuschiy dom v Malibu. YA, zamerev, nablyudala, kak plamya sedaet moi vospominaniya, poka ne uslyshala ego golos. Bez somneniya, on zval menya… Kogda-to ya schitalas uspeshnym pisatelem, no seychas vynuzhdena pisat knigu, na kotoroy nikogda ne budet moego imeni. Vnachale mne kazalos, chto eto rabota mechty, ved ya dolzhna byla sochinit roman, raskryvayuschiy shokiruyuschuyu taynu Dafny dyu More. No chem glubzhe ya pogruzhalas v istoriyu, tem yasnee osoznavala, chto popala v lovushku. Snachala ya doveryala svoyu bol dnevniku, no zatem nachala pisat knigu. Ved rasskazyvaya istoriyu, ya perestavala byt plennitsey. Moya istoriya pravdiva, no ona — vymyshlena. No ta, drugaya, tozhe napisala roman. Moy roman. No ya ne vorovka. YA dazhe i ne lgunya. YA prosto pisatelnitsa. Smogu li ya vyputatsya iz pautiny oderzhimosti, supruzheskih tayn i ukradennyh rukopisey? Dlya poklonnikov «Rebekki» Dafny dyu More.