there? And it s so hard to keep from loving things, isn t it? That was
why I was so glad when I thought I was going to live here. I thought
I d have so many things to love and nothing to hinder me. But that brief
dream is over. I am resigned to my fate now, so I don t think I ll
go out for fear I ll get unresigned again. What is the name of that
geranium on the window-sill, please?
That s the apple-scented geranium.
Oh, I don t mean that sort of a name. I mean just a name you gave it
yourself. Didn t you give it a name? May I give it one then? May I call
it--let me see--Bonny would do--may I call it Bonny while I m here? Oh,
do let me!
Goodness, I don t care. But where on earth is the sense of naming a
geranium?
Oh, I like things to have handles even if they are only geraniums. It
makes them seem more like people. How do you know but that it hurts a
geranium s feelings just to be called a geranium and nothing else? You
wouldn t like to be called nothing but a woman all the time. Yes, I
shall call it Bonny. I named that cherry-tree outside my bedroom window
this morning. I called it Snow Queen because it was so white. Of course,
it won t always be in blossom, but one can imagine that it is, can t
one?
I never in all my life saw or heard anything to equal her, muttered
Marilla, beating a retreat down to the cellar after potatoes. She
_is_ kind of interesting, as Matthew says. I can feel already that I m
wondering what on earth she ll say next. She ll be casting a spell over
me, too. She s cast it over Matthew. That look he gave me when he went
out said everything he said or hinted last night over again. I wish he
was like other men and would talk things out. A body could answer back
then and argue him into reason. But what s to be done with a man who
just _looks?_
Anne had relapsed into reverie, with her chin in her hands and her eyes
on the sky, when Marilla returned from her cellar pilgrimage. There
Marilla left her until the early dinner was on the table.
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