I'm just going to think about the drive.
Oh, look, there's one little early wild rose out! Isn't it 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.