One can't get over the habit of being a little girl all at once.
Never on painter's canvas livesThe charm of his fancy's dream.
I'm really a very happy, contented little person in spite of my broken heart.
I have a little brown cocoon of an idea that may possibly expand into a magnificent moth of fulfilment…
I don’t want to talk as much,’ she said, denting her chin thoughtfully with her forefinger. ‘It’s nicer to think dear, pretty thoughts and keep them in one’s heart, like treasures.
Do you know, Mrs. Allan, I'm thankful for friendship. It beautifies life so much. True friendship is a very helpful thing indeed, said Mrs. Allan, and we should have a very high ideal of it , and neve...
But I'd rather look like you than be pretty, she told Anne sincerely.Anne laughed, sipped honey from the tribute, and cast away the sting.
Bukan kegagalan yang merupakan kejahatan, tapi cita-cita yang dangkal.
We are both going to pray that we may live together all our lives and die the same day.
You can't have many exclamation points left,' thought Anne, 'but no doubt the supply of italics is inexhaustible.
The eastern sky above the firs was flushed faintly pink from the reflection of the west, and Anne was wondering dreamily if the spirit of color looked like that…
That boy ought to sleep with a rubber band around his head to train his ears not to stick out. I had a beau once who did that and it improved him immensely.
She seemed to walk in an atmosphere of things about to happen.
She makes me love her and I like people who make me love them. It saves me so much trouble making myself love them
She looked like a head-on collision between a fashion plate and a nightmare.
She felt very old and mature and wise—which showed how young she was. She told herself that she longed greatly to go back to those dear merry days when life was seen through a rosy mist of hope and il...
Satirize wickedness if you must--but pity weakness.
Pride is cold company
It was not, of course, a proper thing to do. But then I have never pretended, nor will ever pretend, that Emily was a proper child. Books are not written about proper children. They would be so dull n...
It was November—the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines.