It is a strange thing to read a letter after the writer is dead - a bitter-sweet thing, in which pain and comfort are strangely mingled.
Rilla was fond of italics, as most girls of fifteen are.
Don't you ever imagine things differently than what they are? Oh, Marilla, how much you miss.
I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.
Their happiness was in each others keeping, and both were unafraid.
Fancies are like shadows...you can't cage them, they're such wayward, dancing things.