The doll-maker might believe so; indeed, undoubtedly did believe so.
I did not.
That the doll which had stabbed Ricori had been made in the semblance of Peters; that the "nurse doll"
which the guards had seen poised on my window-ledge might have been the one for which Walters had
posed; that the doll which had thrust the pin into Gilmore's brain was, perhaps, the replica of little Anita,
the eleven-year-old schoolgirl-all this I admitted.
But that anything of Peters, anything of Walters, anything of Anita had animated these dolls…that dying,
something of their vitality, their minds, their "souls" had been drawn from them, had been transmuted into
an essence of evil, and imprisoned in these wire-skeletoned puppets…against this all my reason revolted.
I could not force my mind to accept even the possibility.