It's a very... ( His voice is thick, if not yet breaking. Doubled, waiting for him to even it. He breathes, how he breathes. In and out and slowly. In his hands, the doll feels precious, more fragile than its ugly bindings and distorted, hellish face.

He sweeps the curls off her broken porcelain face with the sort of gentleness typically directed at children. )

It's an ugly doll. ( Whispered, once more sheepish. ) But she liked it. My wife left her prettier toys, but... you can't choose these things. For children. For anyone, really. The heart likes what it likes.

( Absently, as if the girl were hardly present. Perhaps as if he has spent far too long speaking to himself. )

I suppose I should... return the favour. Would you like something? A few candies?