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IX. A Question of Color

           Whensheroundedthesprucecurveshesaw.

           ThesightaffectedMrs.Lyndeoddly.Shedroppedthereins,heldupherhands,andsaid“GraciousProvidence!”Shestaredasifshecouldnotbelievehereyes.Thenshelaughedalmosthysterically.

           “Theremustbesomemistake...theremust.IknewthosePyeswouldmakeamessofthings.”

           Mrs.Lyndedrovehome,meetingseveralpeopleontheroadandstoppingtotellthemaboutthehall.Thenewsflewlikewildfire.GilbertBlythe,poringoveratextbookathome,hearditfromhisfather’shiredboyatsunset,andrushedbreathlesslytoGreenGables,joinedonthewaybyFredWright.TheyfoundDianaBarry,JaneAndrews,andAnneShirley,despairpersonified,attheyardgateofGreenGables,underthebigleaflesswillows.

           “Itisn’ttruesurely,Anne?”exclaimedGilbert.

           “Itistrue,”answeredAnne,lookinglikethemuseoftragedy.“Mrs.LyndecalledonherwayfromCarmodytotellme.Oh,itissimplydreadful!Whatistheuseoftryingtoimproveanything?”

           “Whatisdreadful?”askedOliverSloane,arrivingatthismomentwithabandboxhehadbroughtfromtownforMarilla.

           “Haven’tyouheard?”saidJanewrathfully.“Well,itssimplythis...JoshuaPyehasgoneandpaintedthehallblueinsteadofgreen...adeep,brilliantblue,theshadetheyuseforpaintingcartsandwheelbarrows.AndMrs.Lyndesaysitisthemosthideouscolorforabuilding,especiallywhencombinedwitharedroof,thatsheeversaworimagined.YoucouldsimplyhaveknockedmedownwithafeatherwhenIheardit.

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