I do know my own mind,' protested Anne. 'The trouble is, my mind changes and then I have to get acquainted with it all over again.

I'm afraid to speak or move for fear that all this wonderful beauty will just vanish... like a broken silence.

It was November--the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines. Anne roamed through the pineland alleys in the park and, as she said, let that great sweeping wind blow the fogs out of her soul.

Fear is a vile thing, and is at the bottom of almost every wrong and hatred of the world.

I don't know which is worse - to have somebody you DON'T like ask you to marry him or NOT have some one you DO like. Both are rather unpleasant.

A bosom friend - an intimate friend, you know - a really kindred spirit to whom I can confide my inmost soul.

After all, what could you expect from a pig but a grunt?