That is one consolation when you are poor—there are so many more things you can imagine about.

…there was something about her that made you feel it was safe to tell her secrets.

One June evening, when the orchards were pink-blossomed again, when the frogs were singing silverly sweet in the marshes about the head of the Lake of Shining Waters, and the air was full of the savor of clover fields and balsamic fir woods, Anne was sitting by her gable window. She had been studying her lessons, but it had grown too dark to see the book, so she had fallen into wide-eyed reverie, looking out past the boughs of the Snow Queen, once more bestarred with its tufts of blossom.

She seemed to walk in an atmosphere of things about to happen.

I know I haven't much sense or sobriety, but I've got what is ever so much better — the knack of making people like me.

never write a line you'd be ashamed to read at your own funeral.

Have you ever noticed that when people say it is their duty to tell you a certain thing you may prepare for something disagreeable? Why is it that they never seem to think it a duty to tell you the pleasant things they hear about you?