"There?" she asked, "what do you think of them?"
They were silhouettes of birds and beasts, made of wood, painted and
varnished. But such ducks had never quacked, such geese had never
waddled, such dogs had never barked--fantastic as a nightmare--too
long--too broad--exaggerated out of all reality, they might have
marched with Alice from Wonderland or from behind the Looking Glass.
"I made them, Daddy."
"You--."
"Yes, do you like them?"
"Aren't they a bit--uncanny?"
"We've sold dozens; the children adore them."
"And you haven't told me you were doing it. Why?"
"I wanted you to see them first--a surprise. We call them the Lovely
Dreams, and we made the ducks green and the pussy cats pink because
that's the way the children see them in their own little minds--"
She was radiant. "And I am making money, Daddy. Emily had such a hard
time getting toys after the war began, so we thought we'd try. And we
worked out these. I get a percentage on all sales."
He frowned. "I am not sure that I like that."
"Why not?"
"Don't I give you money enough?"
"Of course. But this is different.
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