Today is the anniversary of that afternoon in April a year ago that I first saw the strange and appealing doll in the window of Abe Sheftel's stationery and toy shop on Third Avenue near Fifteenth Street, just around the comer from my office, where the plate on the door read: Dr. Samuel Amory. I remember just how it was that day: the first hint of spring floated across the East River, mixing with the soft-coal smoke from the factories and the strut smells of the poor neighborhood. As I turned the comer on my way to work and came to Sheftel's, I was made once more aware of the poor collection of toys in the dusty window, and I remembered the approaching birthday of a small niece of mine in Cleveland, to whom I was in the habit of sending modest gifts. Therefore, I stopped and examined the window to see if there might be anything appropriate, and looked at the confusing collection of unappealing objects—a red toy fire engine, some lead soldiers, cheap baseballs, bottles of ink, pens, yellowed stationery, and garish cardboard advertisements for soft-drinks. And thus it was that my eyes eventually came to rest upon the doll tucked away in one comer, a doll with the strangest, most charming expression on her face. I could not wholly make her out, due to the shadows and the film through which I was looking, but I was aware that a tremendous impression had been made up on mc as though I had run into a person, as one does sometimes with a stranger, with whose personality one is deeply impressed. When did the story take place?