This will never work, you know, said the voice in Daksha's head.

''We'll see about that, won't we?'' she replied out loud.

She continued to paint the face on the newly carved doll sitting on her workshop table. Everything else faded into the background as she worked, like always. The cramped, hot, untidy little workshop, its shelves crowded with doll parts and tools; and the noise and bustle of Shimla, summer capital of the British Raj, in . . .

 


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