But the summer had been a very happy one, too -- a time of glad living with summer suns and skies, a time of keen delight in wholesome things; a time of renewing and deepening of old friendships; a time in which she had learned to live more nobly, to work more patiently, to play more heartily.
L.M. MontgomeryStichwörter: friendship life-and-living
You don't know love when you see it. You've tricked something out with your imagination that you think love, and you expect the real thing to look like that.
L.M. MontgomeryStichwörter: anne-of-the-island
No sabes reconocer el amor. Has imaginado el amor como una sensación determinada y quieres que en la vida real sea así.
L.M. MontgomeryStichwörter: anne-of-the-island
Oh, it makes SUCH a difference. It LOOKS so much nicer. When you hear a name pronounced can't you always see it in your mind, just as if it was printed out? I can; and A-n-n looks dreadful, but A-n-n-e looks so much more distinguished. If you'll only call me Anne spelled with an E I shall try to reconcile myself to not being called Cordelia.
L.M. MontgomeryStichwörter: names
She could keep her silence, it was evident, as energetically as she could talk.
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At that moment Marilla had a revelation. In the sudden stab of fear that pierced her very heart she realized what Anne had come to mean to her. She would have admitted that she liked Anne--nay, that she was very fond of Anne. But now she knew as she hurried wildly down the slope that Anne was dearer to her than anything else on earth
L.M. MontgomeryI have been reading three books Dean lent me this week. One was like a rose garden--very pleasant, but just a little too sweet. And one was like a pine wood on a mountain--full of balsam and tang--I loved it, and yet it filled me with a sort of despair. It was written so beautifully--I can never write like that, I feel sure. And one--it was just like a pig-sty. Dean gave me that one by mistake.
L.M. MontgomeryStichwörter: reading-books
The boys like me as a pal but I don't believe anyone will ever really fall in love with me."
"Nonsense," said Emily reassuringly. "Nine out of ten men will fall in love with you."
"But it will be the tenth I'll want," persisted Ilse gloomily.
Andrew is going to be one of my problems. Dean thinks it's great fun--he knows what is in the wind as well as I do. He is always teasing me about my red-headed young man--my r.h.y.m. for short.
"He's almost a rhyme," said Dean.
"But never a poem," said I.
Nothing good about this but it's title. A priggish little yarn. And Hidden Riches is not a story--it's a machine. It creaks. It never made me forget for one instant that it was a story. Hence it isn't a story.
L.M. MontgomeryStichwörter: writing
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