Anne, who was perched on the edge of the veranda, enjoying the charm of a mild west wind blowing across a newly ploughed field on a gray November twilight and piping a quaint little melody among the twisted firs below the garden, turned her dreamy face over her shoulder.

Miss Cornelia dropped in that afternoon, puffing a little."I don't mind the world or the devil much, but the flesh does rather bother me," she admitted. "You always look as cool as a cucumber, Anne, dearie. Do I smell cherry pie? If I do, ask me to stay to tea...

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.

Old-fashioned names are the best and sweetest in my opinion.

I think this story-writing business is the foolishest yet," scoffed Marilla. "You'll get a pack of nonsense into your heads and waste time that should be put to your lessons. Reading stories is bad enough but writing them is worse.

I think you had better learn to control that imagination of yours,Anne, if you can't distinguish between what is real and what isnt.

There is no use in loving things if you have to be torn from them, is there? And it's so hard to keep from loving things, isn't it?

...One can't stay sad very long in such an interesting world, can one?

In geometry Anne met her Waterloo. “It’s perfectly awful stuff, Marilla,” she groaned. “I’m sure I’ll never be able to make heads or tail of it. There is not scope for imagination in it at all.

You'd find it easier to be bad than good if you had red hair.