Desire Grows By What It Feeds On.

But Anne With Her Elbows On The Window Sill, Her Soft Cheek Laid Against Her Clasped Hands, And Her Eyes Filled With Visions, Looked Out Unheedingly Across City Roof And Spire To That Glorious Dome Of Sunset Sky And Wove Her Dreams Of A Possible Future From The Golden Tissue Of Youth's Own Optimism. All The Beyond Was Hers, With Its Possibilities Lurking Rosily In The Oncoming Years — Each Year A Rose Of Promise To Be Woven Into An Immortal Chaplet.

When People Mean To Be Good To You, You Don't Mind Very Much When They're Not Quite—always.

I Am Simply A 'book Drunkard.' Books Have The Same Irresistible Temptation For Me That Liquor Has For Its Devotee. I Cannot Withstand Them.

Do You Know What I Think Mayflowers Are, Marilla? I Think They Must Be The Souls Of The Flowers That Died Last Summer, And This Is Their Heaven.

Behind Them In The Garden The Little Stone House Brooded Among The Shadows. It Was Lonely But Not Forsaken. It Had Not Yet Done With Dreams And Laughter And The Joy Of Life; There Were To Be Future Summers For The Little Stone House; Meanwhile, It Could Wait. And Over The River In Purple Durance The Echoes Bided Their Time.