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?

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

Reading stories is bad enough but writing them is worse.

They keep coming up new all the time - things to perplex you, you know. You settle one question and there's another right after. There are so many things to be thought over and decided when you're beginning to grow up. It keeps me busy all the time thinking them over and deciding what's right. It's a serious thing to grow up, isn't it, Marilla?

Because when you are imagining, you might as well imagine something worth while.

Rebellion flamed up in her soul as the dark hours passed by – not because she had no future but because she had no past.

Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one's life with pomp and blare... Perhaps it crept to one's side like an old friend through quiet ways.