lovely? Don t you think it must be glad to be a rose? Wouldn t it be
nice if roses could talk? I m sure they could tell us such lovely
things. And isn t pink the most bewitching color in the world? I love
it, but I can t wear it. Redheaded people can t wear pink, not even in
imagination. Did you ever know of anybody whose hair was red when she
was young, but got to be another color when she grew up?
No, I don t know as I ever did, said Marilla mercilessly, and I
shouldn t think it likely to happen in your case either.
Anne sighed.
Well, that is another hope gone. My life is a perfect graveyard of
buried hopes. That s a sentence I read in a book once, and I say it
over to comfort myself whenever I m disappointed in anything.
I don t see where the comforting comes in myself, said Marilla.
Why, because it sounds so nice and romantic, just as if I were a
heroine in a book, you know. I am so fond of romantic things, and a
graveyard full of buried hopes is about as romantic a thing as one can
imagine, isn t it? I m rather glad I have one. Are we going across the
Lake of Shining Waters today?
We re not going over Barry s pond, if that s what you mean by your Lake
of Shining Waters. We re going by the shore road.
Shore road sounds nice, said Anne dreamily. Is it as nice as it
sounds? Just when you said shore road I saw it in a picture in my
mind, as quick as that! And White Sands is a pretty name, too; but I
don t like it as well as Avonlea. Avonlea is a lovely name. It just
sounds like music. How far is it to White Sands?
It s five miles; and as you re evidently bent on talking you might as
well talk to some purpose by telling me what you know about yourself.
Oh, what I _know_ about myself isn t really worth telling, said Anne
eagerly. If you ll only let me tell you what I _imagine_ about myself
you ll think it ever so much more interesting.
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