Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one’s life with pomp and blare, like a gay knight riding down; perhaps it crept to one’s side like an old friend through quiet ways; perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some sudden shaft of illumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music, perhaps . . . perhaps . . . love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful friendship, as a golden-hearted rose slipping from its green sheath.

Anne laughed."I don't want sunbursts or marble halls, I just want you.

And if you couldn't be loved, the next best thing was to be let alone.

There is no such thing as freedom on earth," he said. "Only different kinds of bondages. And comparative bondages. YOU think you are free now because you've escaped from a peculiarly unbreakable kind of bondage. But are you? You love me - THAT'S a bondage.

Yet somehow [Marilla’s letter] conveyed to Anne of the wholesome, simple life at Green Gables, with its savor of ancient peace, and the steadfast abiding love that was there for her.

Gilbert, I'm afraid I'm scandalously in love with you.

It's the birthday of our happiness," said Anne softly.

Anne laughed -- then shivered."I can never forget the night I thought you were dying, Gilbert. Oh, I knew -- I KNEW then -- and I thought it was too late.""But it wasn't, sweetheart. Oh, Anne, this makes up for everything, doesn't it? Let's resolve to keep this day sacred to perfect beauty all our lives for the gift it has given us.""It's the birthday of our happiness," said Anne softly.

You see," she concluded miserably, "when I can call like that to him across space--I belong to him. He doesn't love me--he never will--but I belong to him.