The End of Imagination/ Write somewhere else

“Oh, Mr. Cuthbert,” she whispered, “That place we came through—that white place—what was it?”
“Well now, you must mean the Avenue,” said Matthew after a few moments’ profound reflection. “It is a kind of pretty place.”
“Pretty? Oh, pretty doesn’t seem the right word to use. Nor beautiful, either. They don’t go far enough. Oh, it was wonderful—wonderful. It’s the first thing I ever saw that couldn’t be improved upon by imagination. It just satisfied me here”—and she put one hand on her breast—“it made a queer funny ache and yet it was a pleasant ache. Did you ever have an ache like that, Mr. Cuthbert?”
(from Anne of Green Gables by Lucy Maud Montgomery.)
I'm going there--to "Anne's Land"--in about 30 minutes. And not in my mind, no, with my three sons and my husband and Lindsey and my very bad cold and our overstuffed luggage and our small plastic bags of gels and creams and no water. I will have only intermittent email access but will try to post from Prince Edward Island at least once to let you know if it makes for a pleasant ache and if I can find a better word than "pretty."