fingers which moved so rhythmically. So restfully. The doll-maker's eyes were on me, soft and gentle…full
of that peace of which she had been telling.
It would do no harm to relax a little, gain strength for the struggle which must come. And I was tired. I
had not realized how tired! My gaze went back to her hands. Strange hands-no more belonging to that
huge body than did the eyes and voice.
Perhaps they did not! Perhaps that gross body was but a cloak, a covering, of the real body to which
eyes and hands and voice belonged. I thought over that, watching the slow rhythms of the hands. What
could the body be like to which they belonged? As beautiful as hands and eyes and voice?
She was humming some strange air. It was a slumberous, lulling melody. It crept along my tired nerves,
into my weary mind-distilling sleep…sleep. As the hands were weaving sleep. As the eyes were pouring