Lovely

The child had filled up his shelves not with books but with dolls: lines and lines of them, all wearing pink. To each one he had given a name—Esther, or Julia, or Sue, or Cindy. He would take up each in turn and play with it for a while. With their distinct personalities they suited his several moods: one was gentle and good, another feisty; a third cried a lot and always clung to him. Towards them all he showed kindness and benevolence: he complimented them, and he doted on them, and indulgently he showered them with gifts.

Late at night when he was lonely, he would look out from his bedstead at the pretty pink dolls and watch their distinct features melt together in the fading light until there were only the lines (stretching on forever) of pleasing pretty pinkness; and then drifting softly to sleep he would murmur: "Oh! that is lovely. Oh oh! that is lovely."