AUDIOBOOK - Anne of Green Gables - Amusing - Authentic -- Character
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EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
North American (Canadian - Maritimes) North American (General) Trans-AtlanticTranscript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
through new bridge, a bustling little village where dogs barked at them and small boys hooted and curious faces peered from the windows. They drove still in silence when three more miles had dropped away behind them. The child had not spoken. She could keep silence. It was evident as energetically as she could talk. I guess you're feeling pretty tired and hungry. Matthew ventured to say at last, accounting for her long visitation of dumbness with the only reason he could think of. But we haven't very far to go now. Only another mile. She came out of her reverie with a deep sigh and looked at him with a dreamy gaze of a soul that had been wondering afar starlet. Mhm. 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 a neck like that? Mr Catbird? Well, now I just can't recollect that I ever had. I have had lots of time whenever I see anything royally beautiful, but they shouldn't call that lovely place. The Avenue. There's no meaning in the name like that. They should call it. Let me see the white way of delight. Isn't that a nice imaginative name? What? I don't like the name of the place or person. I always imagine a new place and always think of them. So there was a girl at the Asylum whose name was Hephzibah Jenkins, but I always imagined her as Rosalia de Vere. Mm. 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 in something still pleasanter may come afterwards. But you can never be sure. And it's so often the case when it isn't pleasant her. That's 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, he's not 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 sandhills shut it in the dark blue gulf. Beyond the water was the glory of many shifting Hughes, the most spiritual shadings of crocus and rose and ethereal green, with other elusive tinting, for which no name has ever been found.