“I think it's something like Mr. Peter Sloane and the octogenarians. The other evening Mrs. Sloane was reading a newspaper ans she said to Mr. Sloane 'I see here that another octogenarian has just died. What is an Octogenarian, Peter?' And Mr. Sloane said he didn't know, but they must be very sickly creatures, for you never heard tell of them but they were dying.”

“Anyhow, there'll be plenty of jam in heaven, that's one comfort, he said complacently.Perhaps there will...if we want it, she said, But what makes you think so?Why, it's in the catechism, said Davy.Oh, no, there is nothing like that in the catechism, Davy.But I tell you there is, persisted Davy. It was in that question Marilla taught me last Sunday. Why should we love God? It says, Because he makes preserves, and redeems us. Preserves is just a holy way of saying jam.”

“I hugged my mom. “Is it supposed to hurt this much, mommy?” I asked.“My sweet Sloane,” she said. “True love hurts the worst.” Sloane and Tammi”

“Sloane,” he said. “You know those stories that little kids read. The ones where the princess always falls in love with the handsome prince despite the bad guy’s effort to thwart it?”“Yeah,” I said wondering where he was going with this. “I’m not the handsome prince. I’m the bad guy.”Siva and Sloane”

“You needn't try to bully me, young man," said that octogenarian with spirit, "settin' there spoilin' your stomach with them nasty jujubes.”

“But I'll have to ask you to wait a long time, Anne," said Gilbert sadly. "It will be three years before I'll finish my medical course. And even then there will be no diamond sunbursts and marble halls."Anne laughed."I don't want sunbursts and marble halls. I just want YOU. You see I'm quite as shameless as Phil about it. Sunbursts and marble halls may be all very well, but there is more `scope for imagination' without them. And as for the waiting, that doesn't matter. We'll just be happy, waiting and working for each other -- and dreaming. Oh, dreams will be very sweet now."Gilbert drew her close to him and kissed her. Then they walked home together in the dusk, crowned king and queen in the bridal realm of love, along winding paths fringed with the sweetest flowers that ever bloomed, and over haunted meadows where winds of hope and memory blew.”

“I wonder why people so commonly suppose that if two individuals are both writers they must therefore be hugely congenial," said Anne, rather scornfully. "Nobody would expect two blacksmiths to be violently attracted toward each other merely because they were both blacksmiths.”