not think of it as a doll, but as the girl. She was dressed in her nurse's uniform. She had no cap, and her
black hair hung disheveled about her face. Her arms were outstretched, and through each palm a small
nail had been thrust, pinning the hands to the back of the cabinet. The feet were bare, resting one on the
other, and through the insteps had been thrust another nail. Completing the dreadful, the blasphemous,
suggestion, above her head was a small placard. I read it:
"The Burnt Martyr."
The doll-maker murmured in a voice like honey garnered from flowers in hell:
"This doll has not behaved well. She has been disobedient. I punish my dolls when they do not behave
well. But I see that you are distressed. Well, she has been punished enough-for the moment."
The long white hands crept into the cabinet, drew out the nails from hands and feet. She set the doll