Anne "felt instinctively" that romance was peeping at her around a corner.

But there is always a November space after the leaves have fallen when she felt it was almost indecent to intrude on the woods…for their glory terrestrial had departed and their glory celestial of spirit and purity and whiteness had not yet come upon them.

Reading stories is bad enough but writing them is worse.

The beauty of winter is that it makes you appreciate spring.

She will love deeply--suffer terribly--she will have glorious moments to compensate.

You mayn't get the things themselves; but nothing can prevent you from having the fun of looking forward to them.

That's all the freedom we canhope for - the freedom to choose our prison. [...]