Chronicles of Avonlea (L.M. Montgomery Books) by L.M. Montgomery

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By L.M. Montgomery

On Prince Edward Island, the place Anne Shirley grew up within the sea-sprayed city of Avonlea, there has been no scarcity of fantastic stories.  There used to be the case of Ludovic pace, who would not suggest to the girl he had courted for fifteen years till Anne devised a plan to "speed" him up . . . if it did not backfire and holiday his heart.  But not anyone may possibly blame mischievous Anne for the hilarious conflict of the sexes that erupted whilst a man-hating lady and her cat received quarantined within the related residence with a woman-hating bachelor and his puppy. From sprawling Penhallow Grange, the place a kin waits approximately without end for 2 quarreling fans to wreck their obdurate silence, to the tumbledown farm of previous guy Shaw, who awaits the retum of his liked daughter, L. M. Montgomery has written twelve stories of mystery hopes and hidden desires, jam-packed with attraction and humor.

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There is nobody else who would. It was dear of her-- she knew I wished so much to go to the party with Janet. " Sylvia gave a little sigh in spite of her joy. " Ah, Sylvia, you were wrong! There was somebody else-- somebody who cared very much--an Old Lady, with eager, devouring eyes, who was standing under the lilac bush and who presently stole away through the moonlit orchard to the woods like a shadow, going home with a vision of you in your girlish beauty to companion her through the watches of that summer night.

The Old Lady never dreamed of revealing herself to Sylvia. That, in her poverty, was not to be thought of for a moment. It would have been very sweet to know her--sweet to have her come to the old house-- sweet to talk to her--to enter into her life. But it might not be. The Old Lady's pride was still far stronger than her love. It was the one thing she had never sacrificed and never-- so she believed--could sacrifice. II. The June Chapter There were no Mayflowers in June; but now the Old Lady's garden was full of blossoms and every morning Sylvia found a bouquet of them by the beech--the perfumed ivory of white narcissus, the flame of tulips, the fairy branches of bleeding-heart, the pink-and-snow of little, thorny, single, sweetbreathed early roses.

It was published when he was at college--just a small, private edition to give his friends. He never published any more--poor father! I think life disappointed him. But I have such a longing to see that little book of his verse. I haven't a scrap of his writings. If I had it would seem as if I possessed something of him--of his heart, his soul, his inner life. " asked Janet. "Mother hadn't. She died when I was born, you know, but Aunty says there was no copy of father's poems among mother's books.

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