This isn't my favourite of the Anne books, but it's still a likeable enough read. I think the problem lies in the balance of the secondary characters. Anne, to be honest, needs to be surrounded by, and is best set off by, gimlet-eyed practical sorts like Marilla or Rachel Lynde, or those who aren't afraid to challenge her or to think differently - or at least more earthily. She's such an imaginative type that when, as in this book, she's paired so frequently with similar characters such as Paul Irving and Miss Lavender, the constant wittering about birch maidens and violets and saccharine poetic ramblings all comes across as a bit, well, twee. Let's face it, if Montgomery doesn't think in purple prose her protagonist certainly does - and the very purplest. (I wince at the thought of what 16 year old Anne would be submitting to poetry journals today. Much as I like her, it doesn't bear thinking about.)

Also, Davy is a tiresome little shit. If his poor neglected sister Dora ever kills him in his sleep, she would be quite justified and no-one would ever suspect her.