Anne of Green Gables

by L.M. Montgomery

drawn from the safe concrete into dubious paths of the abstract.

“I’m not a bit changed—not really. I’m only just pruned down and branched out. The real me—back here—is just the same.

the pleasant consciousness of a great green still outdoors, of sweet peas growing in the garden, and moonlight falling on the orchard, of the brook below the slope and the spruce boughs tossing in the night wind beyond it, of a vast starry sky, and the light from Diana’s window shining out through the gap in the trees.