This book has always been dear to me, ever since I came upon it in hardcover on Mom’s bookshelf. I was 11, Anne was eleven. Anne suffered from an imagination, as did I. I wasn’t an orphan like her, but I lived on a farm with no kids around and no trips to the library. Anne became a kindred soul. Soon Anne, who I still visit annually, will become even more dear to me. In the month of May about the time a befuddled Matthew brought home the girl-that-was-supposed-to-be-a-boy, I plan to present to my 11-year-old daughter this novel. It won’t be the hardcover because my mother refuses to give up her copy; it’ll be one easy to hold and can stand up to wear.
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