Perhaps, after all, romance did not come into one's life with pomp and blare, like
a gay knight riding down; perhaps it crept to one's side like an old friend through
quiet ways; perhaps it revealed itself in seeming prose, until some sudden shaft
of illumination flung athwart its pages betrayed the rhythm and the music; perhaps . . .
perhaps . . . love unfolded naturally out of a beautiful friendship, as a golden-hearted
rose slipping from its green sheath.
L.M. Montgomery
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