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- Люси Мод Монтгомери
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- Аня из Зелёных Мезонинов
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- Стр. 11/212
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She
came
out
of
her
reverie
with
a
deep
sigh
and
looked
at
him
with
the
dreamy
gaze
of
a
soul
that
had
been
wondering
afar
,
star
-
led
.
“
Oh
,
Mr
.
Cuthbert
,
”
she
whispered
,
“
that
place
we
came
through
—
that
white
place
—
what
was
it
?
”
“
Well
now
,
you
must
mean
the
Avenue
,
”
said
Matthew
after
a
few
moments
’
profound
reflection
.
“
It
is
a
kind
of
pretty
place
.
”
“
Pretty
?
Oh
,
pretty
doesn
’
t
seem
the
right
word
to
use
.
Nor
beautiful
,
either
.
They
don
’
t
go
far
enough
.
Oh
,
it
was
wonderful
—
wonderful
.
It
’
s
the
first
thing
I
ever
saw
that
couldn
’
t
be
improved
upon
by
imagination
.
It
just
satisfies
me
here
”
—
she
put
one
hand
on
her
breast
—
“
it
made
a
queer
funny
ache
and
yet
it
was
a
pleasant
ache
.
Did
you
ever
have
an
ache
like
that
,
Mr
.
Cuthbert
?
”
“
Well
now
,
I
just
can
’
t
recollect
that
I
ever
had
.
”
“
I
have
it
lots
of
time
—
whenever
I
see
anything
royally
beautiful
.
But
they
shouldn
’
t
call
that
lovely
place
the
Avenue
.
There
is
no
meaning
in
a
name
like
that
.
They
should
call
it
—
let
me
see
—
the
White
Way
of
Delight
.
Isn
’
t
that
a
nice
imaginative
name
?
When
I
don
’
t
like
the
name
of
a
place
or
a
person
I
always
imagine
a
new
one
and
always
think
of
them
so
.
There
was
a
girl
at
the
asylum
whose
name
was
Hepzibah
Jenkins
,
but
I
always
imagined
her
as
Rosalia
DeVere
.
Other
people
may
call
that
place
the
Avenue
,
but
I
shall
always
call
it
the
White
Way
of
Delight
.
Have
we
really
only
another
mile
to
go
before
we
get
home
?
I
’
m
glad
and
I
’
m
sorry
.
I
’
m
sorry
because
this
drive
has
been
so
pleasant
and
I
’
m
always
sorry
when
pleasant
things
end
.
Something
still
pleasanter
may
come
after
,
but
you
can
never
be
sure
.
And
it
’
s
so
often
the
case
that
it
isn
’
t
pleasanter
.
That
has
been
my
experience
anyhow
.
But
I
’
m
glad
to
think
of
getting
home
.
You
see
,
I
’
ve
never
had
a
real
home
since
I
can
remember
.
It
gives
me
that
pleasant
ache
again
just
to
think
of
coming
to
a
really
truly
home
.
Oh
,
isn
’
t
that
pretty
!
”
They
had
driven
over
the
crest
of
a
hill
.
Below
them
was
a
pond
,
looking
almost
like
a
river
so
long
and
winding
was
it
.
A
bridge
spanned
it
midway
and
from
there
to
its
lower
end
,
where
an
amber
-
hued
belt
of
sand
-
hills
shut
it
in
from
the
dark
blue
gulf
beyond
,
the
water
was
a
glory
of
many
shifting
hues
—
the
most
spiritual
shadings
of
crocus
and
rose
and
ethereal
green
,
with
other
elusive
tintings
for
which
no
name
has
ever
been
found
.
Above
the
bridge
the
pond
ran
up
into
fringing
groves
of
fir
and
maple
and
lay
all
darkly
translucent
in
their
wavering
shadows
.
Here
and
there
a
wild
plum
leaned
out
from
the
bank
like
a
white
-
clad
girl
tip
-
toeing
to
her
own
reflection
.
From
the
marsh
at
the
head
of
the
pond
came
the
clear
,
mournfully
-
sweet
chorus
of
the
frogs
.
There
was
a
little
gray
house
peering
around
a
white
apple
orchard
on
a
slope
beyond
and
,
although
it
was
not
yet
quite
dark
,
a
light
was
shining
from
one
of
its
windows
.
“
That
’
s
Barry
’
s
pond
,
”
said
Matthew
.
