Today is the anniversary of that afternoon in April a year ago that I first saw the strange and appealing doll (玩具娃娃) in the window of Abe Sheftel’’s toy shop on Third Avenue near Fifth Street, just around the corner from my office, where the plate on the door reads: Dr. Samuel Amory. I remember just how it was that day: the first hint of spring floated across the East River, mixing with the soft-coal: smoke from the factories and the street smells of the poor neighborhood. As I turned the corner on my way to work and came to Sheftel’’s, I was made once more aware of the poor collection of toys in the dusty window, and I remembered the approaching birthday of a small niece of mine in Cleveland, to whom I was in the habit of sending modest gifts. Therefore, I stopped and examined the window to see if there might be anything suitable, and looked at the confusing collection of unappealing objects—a red toy fire engine, some lead soldiers, cheap baseballs, bottles of ink, pens, yellowed envelopes, and advertisements for soft-drinks; And thus it was that my eyes ually came to rest upon the doll stored away in one corner, a doll with the strangest, most charming expression on her face. I could not wholly make her out, due to the shadows and the film of dust through which I was looking, but I was aware that a tremendous impression had been made upon me as though I had run into a person, as one does sometimes with a stranger, with whose personality one is deeply impressed. Most of the things in the store window were______.