Perhaps. . .love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful friendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from its green sheath.

But was anything in life, Anne asked herself wearily, like one's imagination of it?

Truth exists, only lies have to be invented.

What care I if it be "wild and improbable" and "lacking in literary art"? I refuse to be any longer hampered by such canons of criticism. The one essential thing I demand of a book is that it should interest me. If it does, I forgive it every other fault.

Kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to think. It's splendid to find out there are so many of them in the world.

Here sat Marilla Cuthbert, when she sat at all, slightly distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to her too dancing and irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant to be taken seriously.

Oh", she thought, "how horrible it is that people have to grow up-and marry-and change!