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Anne of Green Gables goes to war
Popular Searches historical novels set in sicily by italians foxheart by claire legrand books by lucinda riley green house book sister by raina telgemeier. Item Added: Anne Green Gables. View Wishlist. Matthew, much to his own surprise, was enjoying himself.
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Like most quiet folks he liked talkative people when they were willing to do the talking themselves and did not expect him to keep up his end of it. But he had never expected to enjoy the society of a little girl. Women were bad enough in all conscience, but little girls were worse. He detested the way they had of sidling past him timidly, with sidewise glances, as if they expected him to gobble them up at a mouthful if they ventured to say a word. That was the Avonlea type of well-bred little girl. I know you and I are going to get along together fine. And people laugh at me because I use big words.
Spencer said that my tongue must be hung in the middle. Spencer said your place was named Green Gables. I asked her all about it.
And she said there were trees all around it. I was gladder than ever. I just love trees. They just looked like orphans themselves, those trees did. It used to make me want to cry to look at them. I know just exactly how you feel, little trees. Is there a brook anywhere near Green Gables? I forgot to ask Mrs. Spencer that. I never expected I would, though. But just now I feel pretty nearly perfectly happy. The girl let the braid drop back with a sigh that seemed to come from her very toes and to exhale forth all the sorrows of the ages.
Nobody could who has red hair. I can imagine them away. I can imagine that I have a beautiful rose-leaf complexion and lovely starry violet eyes. But I cannot imagine that red hair away. I do my best. It will be my lifelong sorrow. Her hair was pure gold rippling back from her alabaster brow. What is an alabaster brow? I never could find out. Can you tell me? He felt as he had once felt in his rash youth when another boy had enticed him on the merry-go-round at a picnic. Have you ever imagined what it must feel like to be divinely beautiful?
Which would you rather be if you had the choice—divinely beautiful or dazzlingly clever or angelically good? I can never decide. Spencer says—oh, Mr.
Ten things Anne of Green Gables taught me
Oh, Mr. That was not what Mrs. Spencer had said; neither had the child tumbled out of the buggy nor had Matthew done anything astonishing. Overhead was one long canopy of snowy fragrant bloom. Below the boughs the air was full of a purple twilight and far ahead a glimpse of painted sunset sky shone like a great rose window at the end of a cathedral aisle. Its beauty seemed to strike the child dumb. She leaned back in the buggy, her thin hands clasped before her, her face lifted rapturously to the white splendor above.
Even when they had passed out and were driving down the long slope to Newbridge she never moved or spoke. Still with rapt face she gazed afar into the sunset west, with eyes that saw visions trooping splendidly across that glowing background. Through Newbridge, a bustling little village where dogs barked at them and small boys hooted and curious faces peered from the windows, they drove, still in silence.
When three more miles had dropped away behind them the child had not spoken. She could keep silence, it was evident, as energetically as she could talk.
Anne of Green Gables by Montgomery, First Edition
She came out of her reverie with a deep sigh and looked at him with the dreamy gaze of a soul that had been wondering afar, star-led. Nor beautiful, either. Oh, it was wonderful—wonderful. Did you ever have an ache like that, Mr. There is no meaning in a name like that. They should call it—let me see—the White Way of Delight. Have we really only another mile to go before we get home?
Something still pleasanter may come after, but you can never be sure. That has been my experience anyhow. It gives me that pleasant ache again just to think of coming to a really truly home. They had driven over the crest of a hill. Below them was a pond, looking almost like a river so long and winding was it. A bridge spanned it midway and from there to its lower end, where an amber-hued belt of sand-hills shut it in from the dark blue gulf beyond, the water was a glory of many shifting hues—the most spiritual shadings of crocus and rose and ethereal green, with other elusive tintings for which no name has ever been found.
Above the bridge the pond ran up into fringing groves of fir and maple and lay all darkly translucent in their wavering shadows. Here and there a wild plum leaned out from the bank like a white-clad girl tip-toeing to her own reflection.
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From the marsh at the head of the pond came the clear, mournfully-sweet chorus of the frogs. There was a little gray house peering around a white apple orchard on a slope beyond and, although it was not yet quite dark, a light was shining from one of its windows. I shall call it—let me see—the Lake of Shining Waters. Yes, that is the right name for it. I know because of the thrill.
When I hit on a name that suits exactly it gives me a thrill.
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