She had never had a real doll.

Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving.

But a doll that rolled its eyes and had flaxen hair! Except for the manual labour--there had been natives to fetch and carry--she and Cosette were sisters in loneliness.
Perhaps an hour passed before she laid aside the book.

A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge--for she had not drawn the curtain--attracted her attention.

She turned off the light and approached the window.