be explained--Anne s a great hand at explaining.
She s not here when I told her to stay, retorted Marilla. I reckon
she ll find it hard to explain _that_ to my satisfaction. Of course I knew
you d take her part, Matthew. But I m bringing her up, not you.
It was dark when supper was ready, and still no sign of Anne, coming
hurriedly over the log bridge or up Lover s Lane, breathless and
repentant with a sense of neglected duties. Marilla washed and put away
the dishes grimly. Then, wanting a candle to light her way down the
cellar, she went up to the east gable for the one that generally stood
on Anne s table. Lighting it, she turned around to see Anne herself
lying on the bed, face downward among the pillows.
Mercy on us, said astonished Marilla, have you been asleep, Anne?
No, was the muffled reply.
Are you sick then? demanded Marilla anxiously, going over to the bed.
Anne cowered deeper into her pillows as if desirous of hiding herself
forever from mortal eyes.
No. But please, Marilla, go away and don t look at me. I m in the
depths of despair and I don t care who gets head in class or writes the
best composition or sings in the Sunday-school choir any more. Little
things like that are of no importance now because I don t suppose I ll
ever be able to go anywhere again. My career is closed. Please, Marilla,
go away and don t look at me.
Did anyone ever hear the like? the mystified Marilla wanted to know.
Anne Shirley, whatever is the matter with you? What have you done? Get
right up this minute and tell me. This minute, I say. There now, what is
it?
Anne had slid to the floor in despairing obedience.
Look at my hair, Marilla, she whispered.
Accordingly, Marilla lifted her candle and looked scrutinizingly at
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