The Lonely Doll

One day when I was seven or eight years old I went down the street and knocked on the door of a neighbor girl, Janice. Janice was my age, but we went to different schools. She was a beautiful girl, with straight blond hair and a cool countenance. I remember seeing the book The Lonely Doll, and on the cover was a picture of a porcelain doll that I thought looked like Janice. She was an only child, which to me meant that she had a perfect life of ease and order. And she was mean.