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.

I must be getting old ... People are beginning to tell me I look so young. They never tell you that when you are young.

There are a great many people who do not understand things so there is no use in telling them.

I'm really a very happy, contented little person in spite of my broken heart.

But I believe I rather like superstitious people. They lend color to life. Wouldn't it be a rather drab world if everybody was wise and sensible . . . and good? What would we find to talk about?

Which would you rather be if you had the choice--divinely beautiful or dazzlingly clever or angelically good?

Oh, Marilla, I thought I was happy before. Now I know that I just dreamed a pleasant dream of happiness. This is the reality.