Dear Gilbert,
I look like my mother. To think I once hated my red hair and freckles that were a gift from her. There wasn't a photograph, but there was a portrait of her done by my father. She was beautiful, Gilbert. She had red hair and gorgeous freckles and even though her eyes were closed, I just know she had the beautiful blue eyes you are always raving about.
At this point I should probably explain myself, since you have not a clue what is happening.
After our wondrous kiss, the Cuthbert's came by with a book they had gone on a wild goose adventure for. It was titled "The Language of Flowers" and it had little handwritten inscriptions put into it by my parents. Your handwriting looks awfully similar to my fathers love. May I call you love? It seems so right to. Anyway I was flipping through the book looking at all of the different flowers, when I happen to look at the back of the book. Gilbert, when I say that I was beyond happy, it does no justice to my feelings. I was overjoyed, full to the brim with happiness. I saw that portrait and the title and a wave of joy washed over me. It was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. And Gilbert, if was my mother. She was holding a flower as well. I don't think I could wait a different mother. My father's handwriting, how lovely it is. It has the perfect combination of beautiful penmanship and detailed letters. If the rest of his artwork is anything like the portrait of my mother I love it all without even seeing it.
How was your train ride to U of T? I hope it was wonderful and that you got to have a window seat. Those are my favorite because you get to see nature's beauty from a different perspective.
I hope that your day was just as wonderful as mine. I'm now off to bed. Diana has been asleep for some time now and I should head off to dreamland to have the most wonderful dream about today. Please write back soon. I'm worried sick about you.
Love,
Anne Shirley-Cuthbert