The next morning, when Anne was washing the breakfast dishes in the pantry, Matthew paused on his way out to the barn to say to Marilla again: "I think you ought to let Anne go, Marilla." For a moment Marilla looked things not lawful to be uttered.

Then she yielded to the inevitable and said tartly: "Very well, she can go, since nothing else'll please you." Anne flew out of the pantry, dripping dishcloth in hand.
"Oh, Marilla, Marilla, say those blessed words again." "I guess once is enough to say them.

This is Matthew's doings and I wash my hands of it.

If you catch pneumonia sleeping in a strange bed or coming out of that hot hall in the middle of the night, don't blame me, blame Matthew.

Anne Shirley, you're dripping greasy water all over the floor.