I read somewhere once that souls were like flowers,‘ said Priscilla.
‚Then your soul is a golden narcissus,‘ said Anne, ‚and Diana’s is like a red, red rose. Jane’s is an apple blossom, pink and wholesome and sweet.‘
‚And our own is a white violet, with purple streaks in its heart,‘ finished Priscilla.
L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Avonlea