It seemed so funny that I laughed and laughed. Then Madame Mandilip opened the door, and when I
looked at her eyes and heard her voice I knew why I was so light-hearted-it was like coming home after
the most awful siege of home-sickness. The lovely room welcomed me. It really did. It's the only way I
can describe it. I have the queer feeling that the room is as alive as Madame Mandilip. That it is a part of
her-or rather, a part of the part of her that are her eyes and hands and voice. She didn't ask me why I
had stayed away. She brought out the doll. It is more wonderful than ever. She has still some work to do
on it. We sat and talked, and then she said: "I'd like to make a doll of you, my dear." Those were her
exact words, and for just an instant I had a frightened feeling because I remembered my dream and saw
myself fluttering inside the mirror and trying to get out. And then I realized it was just her way of
speaking, and that she meant she would like to make a doll that looked like me. So I laughed and said,