Chapter 8: VIII

VIII Anne’s First Proposal The old year did not slip away in a green twilight, with a pinky-yellow sunset. Instead, it went out with a wild, white bluster and blow. It was one of the nights when the storm-wind hurtles over the frozen meadows and black hollows, and moans around the eaves like a lost creature, and drives the snow sharply against the shaking panes. “Just the sort of night people like to cuddle down between their blankets and count their mercies,” said Anne to Jane Andrews…