When I was a girl I had a doll that was my size. She had a wardrobe that matched my own. When I wore the rabbit-fur muff and the rabbit-fur hat and went ice-skating, she’d wear them, too, and she’d sit beside my limousine driver, watching me. Sometimes I’d tell Michel that my doll had to sit on his lap, and while I skated in circles I’d wave to her, and Michel, thinking I was waving to him, would wave back. When it grew dark, I wouldn’t want to go home. I wouldn’t want to go back to my apartment where the heat was always on high and coming out of the vent, continually making the drapes in my . . .