The Blythes Are Quoted Quotes

The only thing I envy about a cat is its purr," remarked Dr. Blythe once, listening to Doc's resonant melody. "It is the most contented sound in the world.

I am trying to both be happy and pay attention to the world around me. I do not know if it is possible to do both at the same time.

I am trying to see things in perspective. My dog wants a bite of my peanut butter chocolate chip bagel. I know she cannot have this, because chocolate makes dogs very sick. My dog does not understand this. She pouts and wraps herself around my leg like a scarf and purrs and tries to convince me to give her just a tiny bit. When I do not give in, she eventually gives up and lays in the corner, under the piano, drooping and sad. I hope the universe has my best interest in mind like I have my dog’s. When I want something with my whole being, and the universe withholds it from me, I hope the universe thinks to herself: "Silly girl. She thinks this is what she wants, but she does not understand how it will hurt.

Anne had no sooner uttered the phrase, "home o'dreams," than it captivated her fancy and she immediately began the erection of one of her own. It was, of course, tenanted by an ideal master, dark, proud, and melancholy; but oddly enough, Gilbert Blythe persisted in hanging about too, helping her arrange pictures, lay out gardens, and accomplish sundry other tasks which a proud and melancholy hero evidently considered beneath his dignity. Anne tried to banish Gilbert's image from her castle in Spain but, somehow, he went on being there, so Anne, being in a hurry, gave up the attempt and pursued her aerial architecture with such success that her "home o'dreams" was built and furnished before Diana spoke again.

we lost our son, Anne, as did many others, but we have our memories of him and souls cannot die. We can still walk with Walter in the spring.

Freud's most radical legacy is the one that is the least actualized. After years of evolution on the topic, he came to the conclusion that any exclusive monosexual interest - regardless of whether it was hetero- or homosexual - was neurotic. In a sense Freud is saying what second-wave critic Kate Millet said a half-century late: "Homosexuality was invented by a straight world dealing with its own bisexuality." By the end of his writings, in 1937, Freud was downright blythe about bisexuality: "Every human being['s] . . . libido is distributed, either in a manifest or a latent fashion, over objects of both sexes.

I would like to turn the Kaiser into a good man – a very good man – all at once if I could. That is what I would do. Don't you think, Mrs. Blythe, that would be the very worstest punishment of all?" "Bless the child," said Susan, "how do you make out that would be any kind of a punishment for that wicked fiend?" "Don't you see," said Bruce, looking levelly at Susan, out of his blackly blue eyes, "if he was turned into a good man he would understand how dreadful the things he has done are, and he would feel so terrible about it that he would be more unhappy and miserable than he could ever be in any other way. He would feel just awful – and he would go on feeling like that forever. Yes" – Bruce clenched his hands and nodded his head emphatically, "yes, I would make the Kaiser a good man – that is what I would do – it would serve him 'zackly right.

You don't have to try to be the hero." His voice is rough and low. "I'm not trying," I say. "I am.

Think the highest thought you can think, Feel into it, then expand it. Do this every morning.

she tells me "i don't know how to love anyone with my whole being" and all at once i feel so stupid and so small as i tell her "well i don't know how to not.

Ah, children are not what they were in my young days. They listened to their parents then.

Unforgettable experiences are generally worth splurging on; unlike stuff, memories don’t wear out (or take up space, get dusty, break, or get stolen). If you really want to go and work at an orangutan orphanage in Borneo, it will be worth the cash.

So stay." It seems to take forever for him to answer, and his hands are still playing with my hair, his lips still darting against mine every few seconds. "I can't" He steps back and takes my hand to move me out of the way of the door. "I'd give anything to stay, but I can't. You're stunning, Blythe." He gives me an almost-sad smile. "But I just can't stay. It's too much.

Two came here, Two flew off,— Butterflies. Chora3 In this verse, the ordinary poetical meaning is discarded; what remains is that dark flame of life that burns in all things. It is seen with the belly, not with the eye; with "bowels of compassion.

I could still try... I kick so much ass, right?" - Blythe ... I hugged her.

Did she think ginger cookies a substitute for impassioned longings and mad, wild, glamorous adventures?

You’ve been crying, Aunt Edith,” said a troubled Timothy. He got up out of his chair and hugged her. “Just you wait till I grow up and when I’m a man nothing’ll ever make you cry.

Oh, what would the world be without youth? And yet it passes so quickly. We are old before we know it. We never believe it ... and then some day we wake up and discover we are old.

The guy hefted the sword, weighing it. "What's a pretty thing like you want with a sword anyway?" "She's going to use it to castrate guys who ask stupid questions," Blythe answered for me, her voice flat.

Crackpots and far too much paper," said Blyth. He directed the smile at Miss Morrissey, but he’d started it - perhaps by mistake - when he was looking at Edwin, and it was like being caught in the last rays of sunset. "Sounds like government work to me.

KRIT "Fuck," Matty whispered. He'd heard her. It was me who couldn't breathe now. I had thought it was an accident. But she'd fucking done it on purpose. To protect me. Holy hell. "I'm gonna go . . . ," Matty trailed off. I listened to his footsteps until he was gone before pulling back and looking down at Blythe. "You got in front of a six-foot-three one hundred and eighty pounds of muscle because he was going to hit me?" She nodded. "It was my fault he was going to hit you. I was just going to stop him." She was going to stop him. This girl. Never in all my life did I imagine there was anyone like her. Never. "Sweetheart, how did you intend to stop him? I could handle him. I've kicked his ass many, many times." I cupped her chin in my hand. "I had rather had him kick my ass than to have anything happen to you. That was fucking unbearable. You can't do that to me. If you get hurt, I won't be able to handle it." She signed, and her eyes locked back toward the stage. " I made this worse. I'm sorry. Can you go fix things with the two of you so you can get back onstage?" The distressed look on her face meant I wasn't going to be able to leave. I wanted nothing more than to take her back home and hold her all night. But she was really upset about this. I had overreacted. She had been sitting over here staring at the floor with the saddest lost expression, and I couldn't think straight. I had to get to her. "I'll get Green, and we'll go back onstage. But you have to promise me that you won't try and save me again. I take care of you. Not the other way around," I told her. She reached up and touched my face. "Then who will take care of you?" No one had ever cared about that before. That wasn't something I was going to tell her, though. "You safe in my arms is all I need. Okay?" She frowned and glanced away from me. "I'm not agreeing to that," she said. God, she was adorable. I pressed a kiss to her head. "Come with me to get the guys," I told her as I stood up and brought her with me. "You won't do anything to Green then?" she said, sounding hopeful. "No." Until you're asleep tonight. And then I'm beating his ass.

Folks say I'm good," he remarked whimsically upon one occasion, "but I sometimes wish the Lord had made me only half as good and put the rest of it into looks. But there, I reckon He knew what He was about, as a good Captain should. Some of us have to be homely, or the purty ones—like Mistress Blythe here—wouldn't show up so well.

We're teenagers," I reminded her now. "They won't let us in." "We're girls," Blythe countered. "They'll let us in.

Don't take a pretty book home just cuz it's pretty," Mom always said, "and a girl neither." Somewhere

What are you thinking about?" Blythe said. "How you're more of a lightning strike than a thunderstorm." She grinned. "Don't know what that means, but I like it.

I'm too nerdy, too weird, too much my own quirky self to even attempt to squeeze into what I consider the strangling straightjacket of most societal norms. The few times I have tried, I have failed miserably, as "normal" people can smell something strange on me.

The water was a thick black stroke of ink speckled with gold flakes and silver chips, the shattered reflections of a thousand bright windows, shimmering. Her eyes sparkled the same way, filled with a thousand tiny lights. "You're not looking," she said. But I was.

Who was that came up the lane with you, Anne?" "Gilbert Blythe," answered Anne, vexed to find herself blushing. "I met him on Barry's hill." "I didn't think you and Gilbert Blythe were such good friends that you'd stand for half an hour at the gate talking to him," said Marilla with a dry smile.

Shirley, "the little brown boy," as he was known in the family "Who's Who," was asleep in Susan's arms. He was brown-haired, brown-eyed and brown-skinned, with very rosy cheeks, and he was Susan's especial love. After his birth Anne had been very ill for a long time, and Susan "mothered" the baby with a passionate tenderness which none of the other children, dear as they were to her, had ever called out. Dr. Blythe had said that but for her he would never have lived.

Blythe's favorite shelf near the coffee area. She'd labeled it W.O.W. (WORDS OF WISDOM) and it was stocked with her perennial favorites with bookmarked passages. Natalie used to love browsing that shelf. A book would never betray you or change its mind or make you feel stupid. She took down The Once and Future King and found a marked passage: "The best thing for being sad," replied Merlyn, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That is the only thing that never fails."

If you like cool, funny entertainment, you might like this one. It's a first novel by a local author." She handed him a copy of Practical Demonkeeping. "A very different kind of buddy novel. I thought it was hilarious." "You're reading me like a book." The guy shook his head as if embarrassed by his own lame joke. Then he looked over at Blythe. Natalie saw his gaze move swiftly over her mother's red V-neck sweater and short skirt. "How can you tell that's exactly what would make me happy?" he asked. Oh boy. He was flirting. Guys did that a lot with her mom. She was super pretty, and Natalie knew it wasn't only because Mom was her mom and all kids thought their moms were pretty. Even her snottiest friends like Kayla said Blythe looked like a model. Like Julia Roberts. Plus, her mom had a knack for dressing cool and being social---she could talk to anyone and make them like her. Also, she had a superpower, which was on full display right now. She had the ability to see a person for the first time and almost instantly know what book to recommend. She was really smart and had also read every book ever written, or so it seemed to Natalie. She could talk to high school kids about Ivanhoe and Silas Marner. She ran a mystery discussion group. She could tell people the exact day the new Mary Higgins Clark novel would come out. She knew which kids would only ever read Goosebumps books, no matter what, and she knew which kids would try something else, like Edward Eager or Philip Pullman. Sometimes people didn't know anything about the book they were searching for except "It's blue with gold page edges" and her mom would somehow figure it out.

Not every guy who is "hot" to me is going to be perfect, or even slightly good for me. In fact, the large majority are not. Even when they seem to be because they are 6'3", have a British accent, and also like the song Thunder Road by Bruce Springsting- I know, that's three whole things, how could this not be the person I'm meant to spend the rest of my life with?! As it turns out, the most important sign that someone is not right for you, isn't how they feel about Harry Styles or whether they have glasses that make them look like a professor, but whether or not they're interested in you.

A week later Mrs. Blythe, coming up from the village late in the afternoon, paused at the gate of Ingleside in an amazement which temporarily bereft her of the power of motion. An extraordinary sight met her eyes. Round the end of the kitchen burst Mr. Pryor, running as stout, pompous Mr. Pryor had not run in years, with terror imprinted on every lineament—a terror quite justifiable, for behind him, like an avenging fate, came Susan, with a huge, smoking iron pot grasped in her hands, and an expression in her eye that boded ill to the object of her indignation, if she should overtake him. Pursuer and pursued tore across the lawn. Mr. Pryor reached the gate a few feet ahead of Susan, wrenched it open, and fled down the road, without a glance at the transfixed lady of Ingleside. "Susan," gasped Anne. Susan halted in her mad career, set down her pot, and shook her fist after Mr. Pryor, who had not ceased to run, evidently believing that Susan was still full cry after him. "Susan, what does this mean?" demanded Anne, a little severely. "You may well ask that, Mrs. Dr. dear," Susan replied wrathfully. "I have not been so upset in years. That—that—that pacifist has actually had the audacity to come up here and, in my own kitchen, to ask me to marry him. HIM!" Anne choked back a laugh. "But—Susan!

Diana go slowly out with the others, to walk home alone through the Birch Path and Violet Vale, it was all the former could do to keep her seat and refrain from rushing impulsively after her chum. A lump came into her throat, and she hastily retired behind the pages of her uplifted Latin grammar to hide the tears in her eyes. Not for worlds would Anne have had Gilbert Blythe or Josie Pye see those tears. "But, oh, Marilla, I really felt that I had tasted the bitterness of death, as Mr. Allan said in his sermon last Sunday, when I saw Diana go out alone," she said mournfully that night. "I thought how splendid it would have been if Diana had only been going to study for the Entrance, too. But we can't have things perfect in this imperfect world, as Mrs. Lynde says. Mrs.

get out on the rocks or the fields or the water and spout them." Captain Jim had come up that afternoon to bring Anne a load of shells for her garden, and a little bunch of sweet-grass which he had found in a ramble over the sand dunes. "It's getting real scarce along this shore now," he said. "When I was a boy there was a-plenty of it. But now it's only once in a while you'll find a plot—and never when you're looking for it. You jest have to stumble on it—you're walking along on the sand hills, never thinking of sweet-grass—and all at once the air is full of sweetness—and there's the grass under your feet. I favor the smell of sweet-grass. It always makes me think of my mother." "She was fond of it?" asked Anne. "Not that I knows on. Dunno's she ever saw any sweet-grass. No, it's because it has a kind of motherly perfume—not too young, you understand—something kind of seasoned and wholesome and dependable—jest like a mother. The schoolmaster's bride always kept it among her handkerchiefs. You might put that little bunch among yours, Mistress Blythe. I don't like these boughten scents—but a whiff of sweet-grass belongs anywhere a lady does." Anne had not been especially enthusiastic over the idea of surrounding her flower beds with quahog shells; as a decoration they did not appeal to her on first thought. But she would not have hurt Captain Jim's feelings for anything; so she assumed a virtue she did not at first feel, and thanked him heartily. And when Captain Jim had proudly encircled every bed with a rim of the big, milk-white shells, Anne found to her surprise that she liked the effect.

wonder if Mr. Alec Davis would come back and ha'nt me if I threw a stone at the urn on top of his tombstone," said Jerry. "Mrs. Davis would," giggled Faith. "She just watches us in church like a cat watching mice. Last Sunday I made a face at her nephew and he made one back at me and you should have seen her glare. I'll bet she boxed HIS ears when they got out. Mrs. Marshall Elliott told me we mustn't offend her on any account or I'd have made a face at her, too!" "They say Jem Blythe stuck out his tongue at her once and she would never have his father again, even when her husband was dying," said Jerry. "I wonder what the Blythe gang will be like." "I liked their looks," said Faith. The manse children had been at the station that afternoon when the Blythe small fry had arrived. "I liked Jem's looks ESPECIALLY." "They say in school that Walter's a sissy," said Jerry. "I don't believe it," said Una, who had thought Walter very handsome. "Well, he writes poetry, anyhow. He won the prize the teacher offered last year for writing a poem, Bertie Shakespeare Drew told me. Bertie's mother thought HE should have got the prize because of his name, but Bertie said he couldn't write poetry to save his soul, name or no name." "I suppose we'll get acquainted with them as soon as they begin going to school," mused Faith. "I hope the girls are nice. I don't like most of the girls round here. Even the nice ones are poky. But the Blythe twins look jolly. I thought twins always looked alike, but they don't. I think the red-haired one is the nicest." "I liked their mother's looks," said Una with a little sigh. Una envied all children their mothers. She had been only six when her mother died, but she had some very precious memories, treasured in her soul like jewels, of twilight cuddlings and morning frolics, of loving eyes, a tender voice, and the sweetest, gayest laugh. "They say she isn't like other people," said Jerry. "Mrs. Elliot says that is because she never really grew up," said Faith. "She's taller than Mrs. Elliott." "Yes, yes, but it is inside—Mrs. Elliot says Mrs. Blythe

MY HOUSE I have built me a house at the end of the street Where the tall fir trees stand in a row, With a garden beside it where, purple and gold, The pansies and daffodils grow: It has dear little windows, a wide, friendly door Looking down the long road from the hill, Whence the light can shine out through the blue summer dusk And the winter nights, windy and chill To beckon a welcome for all who may roam ... ‘Tis a darling wee house but it’s not yet a home. It wants moonlight about it all silver and dim, It wants mist and a cloak of grey rain, It wants dew of the twilight and wind of the dawn And the magic of frost on its pane: It wants a small dog with a bark and a tail, It wants kittens to frolic and purr, It wants saucy red robins to whistle and call At dusk from the tassels of fir: It wants storm and sunshine as day follows day, And people to love it in work and in play. It wants faces like flowers at the windows and doors, It wants secrets and follies and fun, It wants love by the hearthstone and friends by the gate, And good sleep when the long day is done: It wants laughter and joy, it wants gay trills of song On the stairs, in the hall, everywhere, It wants wooings and weddings and funerals and births, It wants tears, it wants sorrow and prayer, Content with itself as the years go and come ... Oh, it needs many things for a house to be home! Walter Blythe

At that moment, the back door opened, and Great-grandfather wheeled himself outside. Slowly and carefully, Hannah stepped through the door behind him. Aunt Blythe followed, balancing a tray loaded with a pitcher of lemonade and five glasses. "Come along, you two," Hannah called. “Tarnation,” Andrew muttered. “Am I going to have to see that jackass today?” Without letting me help, he levered himself out of the chair with his cane. “I bet Hannah woke the old coot up just to make me miserable.” When we joined the others on the porch, Great-grandfather refused to look at us. Keeping his head down, he fidgeted with the blanket on his lap. “This is a fine way to greet me,” Andrew said. “Maybe he doesn’t recognize you.” Aunt Blythe bent down to peer into Great-grandfather’s face. “Your cousins are here, Father. Can you say hello to Hannah and Andrew?” “It’s my house,” he mumbled. “They can’t have it.” Andrew looked as if he wanted to give his cousin a punch in the nose, but Hannah intervened. “We know the house is yours, Edward,” she said. “Don’t worry, we haven’t come to take it back. Andrew and I have our own home.” Great-grandfather raised his head and stared at Hannah. “You never liked me. Neither did your brothers. I wasn’t welcome in this house when you lived here. Now it’s mine and you’re not welcome.” Ignoring Aunt Blythe’s protests, Great-grandfather wheeled himself toward the back door. “You and your Roosevelt,” he muttered before he disappeared. “Too bad you women ever got the vote.” “Please excuse Father,” Aunt Blythe said. “He’s having one of his bad days.” Andrew snorted. “All of Edward’s days have been bad, every blasted one of them.” Hannah rapped his fingers. “Don’t be so ornery, Andrew. What will Blythe think of you?” “I say what’s on my mind. Always have.” Andrew shot me a grin. “Isn’t that right, Drew?” Hannah frowned at her brother. “How on earth can Drew answer a question like that?” My aunt didn’t notice the warning tone in her cousin’s voice, but I did. From the look she gave Andrew, I was sure Hannah knew everything.

Hi," I said, channeling my inner friendly person. I knew she was in there, tucked away in a dark corner of my soul, begging to be released every now and again.

I've never been there for you and your mother. I wish I had been. You both deserved better." Natalie hesitated. Now? she thought. You want to unburden yourself now? Oh, dude... "Mom did," Natalie agreed. "I'll always regret that I never found a way to have you in my life," he said. "Yeah, kind of hard when you have a wife and three kids at home." He winced. "I was so fucking stupid. I have so many damn regrets." He paused, then asked, "Did she... did Blythe ever speak of me?" "Let's not do this," Natalie said. "Let's not make this all about you. You could have asked Mom anytime in the past three decades. What do you suppose she would have said---that you're the guy who banged her and gaslighted her about wanting to spend the rest of your life with her?

«Casa», prosegue Chris, «era un posto terrificante una volta, ma ora non lo è più. Ed è merito tuo, Blythe. Sei stata tu a cambiare ogni cosa per me, per tutti noi. Non me lo dimentico mai, neanche per un attimo.»

«È questo il problema! Non ci arrivi? Lui ha già fatto tutto!» È sempre più agitato. «Cazzo, Christopher Shepherd ha protetto tutti noi e a me non ha lasciato niente da fare! Si è sottoposto alle torture peggiori che ci infliggeva mio padre e non mi ha mai permesso di ripagarlo.»

Imagine that you knew Greece was still Greece and Italy was still Italy and that the prices quoted in the markets represented the bond-buying activities of banks pushing down yields rather than an estimate of the risk of the bond itself. Why would you buy such securities if the yield did not reflect the risk? You might realize that if you bought enough of them—if you became really big—and those assets lost value, you would become a danger to your national banking system and would have to be bailed out by your sovereign. If you were not bailed out, given your exposures, cross-border linkages to other banks, and high leverage, you would pose a systemic risk to the whole European financial sector. As such, the more risk that you took onto your books, especially in the form of periphery sovereign debt, the more likely it was that your risk would be covered by the ECB, your national government, or both. This would be a moral hazard trade on a continental scale. The euro may have been a political project that provided the economic incentive for this kind of trade to take place. But it was private-sector actors who quite deliberately and voluntarily jumped at the opportunity.

You won't mind if I talk a good deal about her, will you, Mistress Blythe? It's a pleasure to me--for all the pain went out of her memory years ago and jest left its blessing." -Captain Jim

The last time Holbrooke saw Blythe was in the fall of 1980, when he was in New York to finalize the divorce and to reaffirm the American vote for the Khmer Rouge seat at the United Nations. "Pol Pot, Dick?" Blythe said after they signed the papers. "How could you?

You, my darling, are magnificent beyond anything I could have ever imagined,

The ten year old Ingleside twins violated twin tradition by not looking in the least alike. Anne, who was always called Nan, was very pretty, with velvety nut-brown eyes and silky nut-brown hair. She was a very blithe and dainty little maiden—Blythe by name and blithe by nature, one of her teachers had said. Her complexion was quite faultless, much to her mother's satisfaction. "I'm so glad I have one daughter who can wear pink," Mrs. Blythe was wont to say jubilantly.

The readings and tributes were followed by a song, and they were all invited to join in. The lyrics were printed in the program. "No Rain" by Blind Melon had been a favorite of Blythe's, expressing the glory of escaping into a pages of a book. The woman playing guitar was a frequent patron of the shop. She had contacted Natalie and Frieda as they were organizing the program and asked to perform in Blythe's honor. As the lyrics of the song came out of Natalie on a shaky breath, she wished she could do exactly as the words expressed---Escape, escape, escape.

This body is not stuck in the past or planning for the future. The body lives in the radical now. just breathing, just feeling. Absolute nowness is the time of the body. It is close to the infinite.

Willow!" I shouted, as I thrust my bare feet into my gardening boots. "Find Emma!" It wasn't a command the dog had ever heard, but Willow was no ordinary dog. Willow was a gift dog, a dog perfectly designed for the Blythe talent. She knew what I needed, and she knew how to follow her instincts. She had brought the baby home in the first place, and she would do all she could to bring her back.

Blythe sucked in a breath when she felt his hand along her thigh, slipping beneath her gown. "Tell me that this is fine," he whispered. "Or tell me to leave if you must, and we can pretend that this never happened. But one way or another, you must tell me something, Sweetbrier.

Carol Dweck believes that kids can get into a fixed mindset in which they are not open to taking on challenges and improving because they are afraid of failing. She encourages parents and teachers to foster a "growth mindset" among children so that kids see their capabilities not as static but as ever-improving with effort. She thus recommends praising kids' attempts rather than their results to keep them hungry to try and achieve more, as kids who are only commended for their achievements may become afraid of no longer achieving.

My dog wants a bite of my peanut butter chocolate chip bagel. I know she cannot have this, because chocolate makes dogs very sick. Madigan does not understand this. She pouts and wraps herself around my leg like a scarf, trying to convince me to give her just a tiny bit. When I do not give in, she eventually gives up and lays in the corner under the piano, drooping and sad. I hope the universe has my best interest in mind like I have my dog's. When I want something with my whole being, and the universe withholds it from me, I hope the universe thinks to herself, "Silly girl. She thinks this is what she wants, but she does not understand how it will hurt.

Did you think I would fight fair? You matter more than anything else in my life. You. I'm not about to fight fair to get you back. Just because it isn't fair to tell you doesn't mean it isn't true. We do need you to save us. I need you. Without you, I have no anchor. I'm not really alive. I need you to bridge the space that I can't. The one between me and everyone else." -Viktor Prakenskii

Midwest Book Review: "Finding Peace, One Piece at a Time" is especially commended to the attention of family members charged with the responsibility of dealing with the possessions of a loved one who has passed. Exceptionally well organized and presented, "Finding Peace, One Piece at a Time" is a unique and impressively 'real world practical' little compendium of advice, instruction and insight that is unreservedly recommended for personal, professional, community, and academic library collections. Thoroughly 'user friendly' in tone, commentary and style, it should be noted that "Finding Peace, One Piece at a Time" is also available in a digital book format (Kindle, $11.72). —Helen Dumont, Reviewer

I hate this war," said Rilla bitterly, as she gazed out into the maple grove that was a chill glory of pink and gold in the winter sunset. "Nineteen-fourteen has gone," said Dr. Blythe on New Year's Day. "Its sun, which rose fairly, has set in blood. What will nineteen-fifteen bring?" "Victory!" said Susan, for once laconic.

her utter a word of complaint.” “Has she always been so?” “Oh, no. She fell from the barn loft ten years ago. Hunting

Anne always said that Esme Dalley had an iron will under all her sweetness and the doctor had a great deal of respect for the intuition of his wife.

Jill, like Nan, was at the stage when she adored villains. There was no surer passport to her favour than to look as if you were the wreck of a misspent life. 'Or a remorseful pirate,' Nan had said. 'It would be better still for him to be an unremorseful one,' said Diana. Jill felt that she would die for an unremorseful pirate.

Everyone in the world secretly believes, if they are not the best person in the world, then one of the best. "No," you protest, "I'm a lazy piece of shit!" Maybe you truly think so, but in your most, inner soul, you also, incorrectly, believe that there is a realer, better version of you that only you know about because only you have access to your intentions and thoughts and to the whole universe inside of you.

I imagine the full course of relationships with hot men because it fun as hell to imagine a love with someone before I get to know that someone and he fucks it all up with his "actual person existing every day-ness

I imagine the full course of relationships with hot men because it fun as hell to imagine a love with someone before I get to know that someone and he fucks it all up with his "actual person existing every day-ness

Gilbert Blythe," answered Anne, vexed to find herself blushing. "I met him on Barry's hill.