Anne of Green Gables - by Lucy Maud Montgomery
Mrs. Blewett darted her eyes over Anne from head to foot.
"How old are you and what's your name?" she demanded.
"Anne Shirley," faltered the shrinking child, not daring
to make any stipulations regarding the spelling thereof,
"and I'm eleven years old."
"Humph! You don't look as if there was much to you.
But you're wiry. I don't know but the wiry ones are the
best of all. Well, if I take you you'll have to be a
good girl, you know--good and smart and respectful. I'll
expect you to earn your keep, and no mistake about that.
Yes, I suppose I might as well take her off your hands, Miss
Cuthbert. The baby's awful fractious, and I'm clean worn out
attending to him. If you like I can take her right home now."
Marilla looked at Anne and softened at sight of the
child's pale face with its look of mute misery--the misery
of a helpless little creature who finds itself once more
caught in the trap from which it had escaped. Marilla felt
an uncomfortable conviction that, if she denied the appeal
of that look, it would haunt her to her dying day. More-
over, she did not fancy Mrs. Blewett. To hand a sensitive,
"highstrung" child over to such a woman! No, she could
not take the responsibility of doing that!