Chapter 37: XXXVII

XXXVII The Reaper Whose Name Is Death “Matthew—Matthew—what is the matter? Matthew, are you sick?” It was Marilla who spoke, alarm in every jerky word. Anne came through the hall, her hands full of white narcissus—it was long before Anne could love the sight or odour of white narcissus again—in time to hear her and to see Matthew standing in the porch doorway, a folded paper in his hand, and his face strangely drawn and gray. Anne dropped her flowers and sprang across the kitchen t…