Sleepy, a French Doll

On Saturday's about 4.30 Martha would take her stand before the window in the sun parlor. Scratched her plump arms, gathering early berries in anticipation of some high moment when her pie would be approved with a slow wing. She always hoped and hating herself for it that the doctor had come alone or, if not alone, accompanied by another man. Beauty had stirred remembrance of a certain pre-Christmas shopping excursion when she was nine. There had been a French doll so beautiful it had made Martha's little throat ache with longing.