Reading stories is bad enough but writing them is worse.

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.

I believe flowers have souls. I have known roses that I expect to meet in heaven.

Isn't it splendid to think of all the things there are to find out about? It just makes me feel glad to be alive-it's such an interesting world.

I am well in body although considerably rumpled up in spirit, thank you, ma'am,' said Anne gravely. Then aside to Marilla in an audible whisper, 'There wasn't anything startling in that, was there, Marilla?

It was less humiliating to admit crying because of your feet than because - because somebody had been amusing himself with you and your friends had forgotten you, and other people patronised you.

That doesn't sound very attractive," laughed Anne. "I like people to have a little nonsense about them.