It was raining dismally. Mabel, leaning her arms on the broad window-sill, watched the drops trickling down the panes. Before her was an array of paper dolls in gay tissue dresses. They sat perched upon pasteboard chairs in front of a circle of queer creatures with flat heads, and no feet; hand in hand these stood, rather flimsy in appearance. Mabel had cut them all in one from a bit of newspaper. “I’m tired of you,” she said. “And it’s raining, and I don’t know what to do. I wish I were twins, so I could have someone to play with.”…
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