9th October 1967
I have decided to write today about my story. All I have done so far is give you my name and tell you about the miserable life that I live today. But that is not my life. That is the life of this Libby Edwards and I will never be her. My name is Clare Warwick. I am 22 years old and I was born in Bethnal Green, London.
It’s a rough place is the Green. No one there has any money, and everyone has a knife. I was born at home because we couldn’t afford the hospital and my mum had already given birth to five babies before me. Only two survived, my brother Jack and my sister Emma who is two years older than me. This time I survived but my mum did not. She died the next day from what they call “complications”. I often wonder what she was like and what my life would have been had she lived. Hard no doubt, but better than this I am sure. I was so jealous of all the other kids who had mums to cook for them and wash their clothes and stuff. I never had that. We only had dad and all he did was drink. He loved my mum you see, and when she died he couldn’t cope. So, it fell to Jack to look after me. He was eleven when I was born, and he did the best he could. But with dad drinking so much, he got sacked from his job and so Jack had to leave school and go out to work. Work though, can never provide enough for a family, so he left that and joined a gang. He loved the gang, the friendship and brotherhood it brought, plus the money. When they’d done a robbery, he’d come home his pockets full of notes and we’d go into the West End on the train and he’d buy us a lovely meal in some nice restaurant. But those days were rare, and they didn’t last. One day he failed to come home. He was found three hours later in a ditch, slashed with a knife.
After that dad drank more. We began to miss meals and our electric was cut off. Then the water stopped too, and we began to smell. Emma fell ill but there was no money for medicine. She pulled through but then, a year later, she fell ill a second time. The doctor said her constitution was weak and she needed medical help and care. But what could we do? Dad was comatose from the drink all the time and no one wanted to employ a dirty wretch like me. I was sixteen at the time, uneducated and unkempt. The doctor said that there might be a way and ordered dad to come and see him the following morning before he’d had a drink. Sensing a chance to save Emma, we dragged him to the surgery. What we heard when we got there was most unexpected.
Standing next to the doctor was a smart man in a grey suit. The doctor explained that this gentleman, a Mr. Fellows, was a representative of an educational charity. He said that he had informed the charity about Emma’s plight and they wanted to help our family. Dad and I fell onto our knees in thanks. He said that the charity was willing to pay all of Emma’s medical costs for the next twenty years and to educate her until she turned twenty-one. It was too good to be true. But then it got better. They wanted to do the same for me too. All dad had to do was sign over the right of parenthood for both his daughters to the charity until we reached adulthood at 21. He did so willingly and then we signed to say that we had no issue with this. And then, he left and…
There is the alarm. I shall continue tomorrow…
16th October 1967
And so, I started school. It was a weird experience. I’d never had any education or order or boundaries in my life and now I was expected to sit in a class all day long and behave like a good little girl. Of course, with my background, that did not come easily at first, but the school – its full title was the High Barnet Charitable School for Young Ladies – was used to girls like me from deprived backgrounds and knew how to deal with us. When I misbehaved, I was punished with canings on my bottom and then silenced with a gag in my mouth. I resisted for several months, but after that my protestations ceased. They were not worth it.
Not worth it and also the actual education that I was now receiving, I began to find interesting. I was naturally a bright child yet had received precious little education or intellectual stimulus before. I was taught the rudiments of reading, writing and ’rithmetic and began to find pleasure in the stories that I could now immerse myself in.
Equally, I also began to enjoy what the school was doing with my body. The institution was a charitable one established by several Conservative MPs who believed in raising up intelligent members of the lower orders to the civilised classes. That meant educating our minds of course, but also our bodies. We had lessons on deportment and elocution, how to dance and how to make small talk in graceful company, but above that, we were made beautiful.
It started with the uniform. Although a plain affair of dark grey satin with a white apron, it was always to be kept immaculate and we looked fetching in it as the cut was low which exposed the tops of our budding breasts and the waist incorporated a tight corset. I had never worn stays before, but from the first day at the High Barnet Charitable School for Young Ladies they became an essential part of my life, being worn during all waking hours, then removed for washing and night stays then affixed around me, these being slightly looser and finishing under the bosom. They squeezed me terribly, destroyed my appetite, caused me to faint regularly and be always short of breath. But they made me beautiful too. For the first time in my life I felt desirable and I liked that feeling.
Nor too was it only me; my sickly sister blossomed into a stunning, pale-faced beauty with a waist of but 14 inches. She became the belle of the school but then, one day, she left. The headmistress explained to me that she had found a gentleman who would take care of her. For several months she wrote weekly letters, telling of trips to the theatre and the park. Oh, how I envied her. But then the letters stopped, and I grew sad. She had forgotten her little sister; was perhaps ashamed of her even. Later, I realised the truth.
There were other additions to my attire as well. On my first day, in a humiliating episode, my womanly parts were inspected, shaved and then covered with a burning paste. When removed the hair stopped growing there and I was as smooth as a baby. Over those most intimate areas I then wore a belt, night and day, made of metal, that stopped me touching them. This was no great loss as, in the Green, I had rarely touched myself since my hands were so dirty I feared infection and I was so tired from my work that I had not the energy. I was innocent back then; if only it were so now.
And so, my life changed, for the better. Daily I blossomed from a gawky child into an educated and graceful young lady. We would have soirees when men came around and they were the highlight of my – and my girlfriends’ – existences. We were dressed up by the school in the finest gowns and we would enjoy the male company, make small-talk with them and dance. Although most were as old as my father or more, it was jolly good fun and they were the days I remember most fondly.
Well, all except one of them.
The one where I first met Jacob Hunter MP.
But that is a story for later. In the meantime, our waists were steadily reduced, down to the school minimum of 15 inches and then mine beyond, down to an agonising 14. Laced so I could hardly breath or function as a human being, but I loved the attention – particularly the male attention – it brought. I was starting to notice the opposite sex you see, and the power that I had over them. Tightly-laced and finely attired I could make the heads of an entire room turn. For the first time in my young life, I commanded respect and attention and I grew drunk on it. Too drunk, for I did not notice the dangers.
Not even when it was too late.
23rd October 1967
I knew that something special was up. After all, pupils never got invited to the headmistress’s office. I had been in the High Barnet Charitable School for Young Ladies for three years and had blossomed from a puny, gawky, filthy and uncouth girl into a woman, a woman with refinement and manners and a waist fourteen centimetres in circumference that left me feeling elegant and breathless at all times.
Almost a year before, the same had happened to Emma. She had survived her illness scares and the hearty diet and healthy regime of the school had caused her to blossom into a real beauty. Then she had been called into the office and, a week later, she was gone. Somehow, perhaps at one of the soirees, I am unsure, a gentleman had noticed her, and she lived with him. I did not ask if they were married, it was not my place, but I suspected not. I did not approve, of course, but growing up in the Green, you get to take the world for how it is rather than how it should be.
And so, it was for me too. I had an admirer.
His name was Jacob Hunter and he was a Conservative Member of Parliament. His constituency was somewhere in Gloucestershire which was where his ancestral mansion was too, although he split his time between there and the capital. He was also married, to no less a figure than the niece of the prime minister, and she was a lady of great status, a Lady of Leisure no less, who was never seen with unbound arms or a fleur de bouche filling her mouth. I was shocked. Surely if he is married, then he shouldn’t be admiring me I asked with an innocence that was not entirely genuine.
“It is quite normal and correct for gentlemen of standing like Mr. Hunter to take on a mistress,” explained the headmistress. “You will not understand this being innocent of the ways of the world, but men produce a seed inside them which is released during bedtime activities. If this seed is not released it can build up and cause pain and stress. For a gentleman like Mr. Hunter who, by necessity, spends long periods away from home guiding his country, then prevention of that build-up is important. You are serving King and Country by becoming his mistress, Miss Warwick.”
Whatever. All I saw was a new chapter in my life, a chapter with parties and freedoms, away from school, an adult at last.
I remember that first night vividly. It’s a key moment in any girl’s life after all; the night when she truly becomes a woman. I approached it with a degree of fear but also great curiosity and, after the initial pain, I found great pleasure. Jacob was an experienced lover, extremely experienced, and he knew how to give himself pleasure whilst also putting me at my ease and giving me some pleasure of my own. A whole new world was opened up to be and, as he exploded within me, I resolved to make it my own.
And so it began: trips to the theatre wearing a bonnet with a veil to hide my identity; masked balls where all participants were unknown and discreet private parties with carefully selected individuals that often ended up closer to an orgy than a soiree, followed by lazy days in the house, lounging around clad only in my stays, waiting for my man who would arrive after parliamentary business had concluded, often bearing some sort of sparkling gift for me to wear.
Not that I had it all my own way, of course. Jacob was used to power and wielded it naturally. Both in and out of bed he was the master. Several weeks after our affair began, he presented me with a plug shaped a little like a Christmas tress with a large diamond set in the broad end. Confused, I could not figure out its purpose so, purposefully, he bent me over and carefully but firmly inserted it into my bottom hole before then declaring that I was to wear it continually night and day. It was strange, walking around with a rod inserted in my bum, but I bore it for him as I feared the consequences of disobeying. And then, several days later, he bent me over again, removed the plug and instead inserted his member in there. My cries of shock and dismay were simply ignored.
And so, it continued. The winter came and went and so did the summer. During recess we went on a short break to the south of France where I strolled, my face veiled, of course, along the promenade in Nice and marvelled at the lax dress of the locals whilst enjoying the sun.
And throughout this entire period, my own dress changed. My corsets were further tightened until fourteen inches became the norm, not the exception, and for the finest balls I could struggle down to thirteen. This was helped by an operation that Jacob paid for in which my lower ribs were removed, which facilitated the reduction but left me dependent on my stays for the rest of my life. And, whilst I was there, my breasts were enlarged, with 500cc being put in each one. Again, I had no say in any of this although, if we are to be honest, I did not mind that much. After all, were these measures not proof that he loved me and valued me? And that the Cinderella had truly become a princess?
And so, one year rolled by and then two and then three until I reached my twenty-second year. By then though, things had begun to change. They were barely perceptible at first, but real nonetheless. A decrease in his enthusiasm in the bedchamber and in the frequency of his visits and…
The bell. I shall continue next week!
30th October 1967
So, where was I? Oh yes, I got to the point where things started to go horrible. How can I forget that? I will never forget it, it was the worst moment of my life and yet, at the time, it started so well.
Things between me and Jacob Hunter were fine. Or at least, that was how I saw it at the time. In reality, so he had begun to cool a little. He demanded sex less often and came around to the house less frequently. But I just assumed that was because he was busy and too tired for bedtime activities. Certainly, his demeanour didn’t really change. He was courteous to me in public and condescending in private like he always had been. But then my education had taught me that that was how men are to their womenfolk; they are the superior beings after all.
It was his birthday. He was forty-two I seem to recall. He came to the house and took me out. We went for a lovely meal at the Burlington – I had duck à l’orange and a bottle of 1963 Clos St. Denis, I remember it clearly – and then went to the Duke of York’s Theatre to watch Figaro (he always loved the theatre and, since my education, I had begun to appreciate it too). Then it was back to the house and the usual lovemaking. Except that this was not the usual; it was rabid and animalistic, raw passion. It was incredible. Looking back today, I understand why. Then he made me some tea and within seconds I began to feel drowsy. He kissed me on the forehead and I closed my eyes, his smiling face the last thing I was to see.
When I awoke I was not in my bed nor even in the house. Instead, I was in a hospital and I hurt all over. I wondered what the hell had happened and so I cried out. Worryingly though, no sound was made. Indeed, my mouth wouldn’t move. I won’t say that it wouldn’t open because it already was, very wide, but it was stuffed full of something which prevented any sound. More than that, my face seemed to be covered with something, a mask of some sort. My vision, which was clear enough, was like looking through a pair of binoculars only without the magnification. It was as if I were staring through two pinholes, each covered by a lens. What the hell had happened?
I tried to move but found that I could not. Somehow, I was strapped down. All I could do was lie there and wait. Of course, I struggled for some time and yelled into my gag, but nothing happened and so in the end I just lay there. As I did I began to realise that it wasn’t just my face that was covered. Whatever was over it extended around my entire head, like some sort of hood or helmet. And my body was wrong too. The little movement I had made had caused me to heat up far more than it should have done. That too was covered, encased.
I felt the need to go to the toilet. I tried to hold it in but as the hours passed I could not. Eventually, I gave in to the urge and peed. I must have been fitted with a catheter because it drained away without making me damp. And then I waited some more and some more. Hour after hour in that silent, white room with only a ceiling and a strip light to stare at. Where was Jacob? Where was I? Was this what hell is like?
Sometime later, possible days after I first awoke, someone came in. I jerked about when I heard the door and their steps. It was a nurse. She looked at me and said, “So, Number 14, you are back with us. Excellent! I shall get the doctor.”
She left, and I was alone again, confused. What did she mean, ‘Number 14’?
A male doctor came soon afterwards. He did not speak to me nor acknowledge my struggles. Instead, he poked around at my body, tapped my head and squeezed by bottom and breasts. “All healed well and good to go,” he said eventually, more to himself than me. And then I was alone again.
Some hours later two male nurses came carrying a large crate. They released me from my bonds and then lifted me up from the bed and into the crate. Despite my weakness I struggled vigorously but to no avail. They took no notice of me as if I weren’t even human.
Little did I know that, in their eyes, I no longer was.
6th November 1967
Oh my God, this is intolerable! It rained today and so we didn’t go out. Instead Daniel sat me in the lounge and read me a story. I think he was getting excited as he sat on the settee alongside me and put his hand around my waist and squeezed my mammoth breasts. Despite my revulsion at his age – although that is far less these days, indeed, I have become accustomed to it and it feels like the norm – I feel myself attracted to him and long for more. My loins are on fire and I snuggle up to him, my breasts heaving as my breath goes short. He seems to notice and takes my hand. What is happening? He leads me to the bedroom and I totter behind him excited. Is this going to be it? The time when his Christian defences are breached, and he gives in to his carnal desires. I pray silently that it is so, and those prayers are answered… for him. He kneels me on the floor and sticks his rock-hard member in my mouth. Within seconds semen floods my throat. He is sated, and he lies on the bed, beckoning me to join him. I do so but that is all. He sleeps, and I lie there awake and tortured by unquenchable desire.
Desire that still pervades all my thoughts.
I must think of other things, move my mind onto something less sexual. I shall continue with my story…
Duck à l’orange and a bottle of Clos St. Denis. I can taste them now. I dream about them. For they were the last meal that I ever had. As a human being that is.
The journey in that crate, boxed in the dark like I had been buried alive, was petrifying. We bumped about, and I felt myself moving. At several points I wanted to vomit but could not. And then, all was still and after what seemed like hours but was probably only minutes, light flooded in, blinding me.
I was in a dormitory. Two rows of single beds, all empty and made up. They laid me on one of them and then left. I was no longer strapped down, so I tried to move, but after being inactive for so long, I found that I was weak and couldn’t even sit up, let alone walk. What I could do was put my fingers up in front of my face. To my surprise, they seemed as if they were covered in latex or rubber, like those of a mannequin or a doll rather than a living girl. Then a thought flashed through my mind, a horrifying, terrible thought. I tried to banish it, but it kept returning, stronger each time. I was peering through pinholes, my head was encased, my voice was silenced, and my hands were covered in rubber. Are they all not signs of being a doll, one of those weird, living dolls that started off as some underground fetish subculture and seem to be rapidly becoming mainstream. Yet those dolls all choose to be like that, they aren’t forced into it. They have depraved minds that long for some sort of submissive existence. They certainly aren’t the educated mistress of a Member of Parliament with the desire to experience as much of life as possible. And yet… yet had not the last thing that I remembered before blacking put been drinking drugged tea and the smiling face of that Member of Parliament. Could he have…? He had the power and yet why? And I had not consented?
It was then that the lack of sex and infrequent visits began to make sense. And the unusual passion of our final night. And the smile. That evil smile.
A maid came with a dress for me. It was a school uniform similar to that which I had worn at the High Barnet Charitable School for Young Ladies. Passively, I let her put it on me and lace a pair of high-heeled boots (I was already wearing a corset of course). Then she helped me to stand and supported and led me as I walked down a corridor to an office. In that room another woman was waiting. The maid sat me on a chair and the explanation began.
“Welcome to the Chesham Doll Academy Number 14. I am the Headmistress, Miss Unsworth and you shall obey me at all times. If you haven’t already realised it, you have undergone a dramatic transformation. I believe that you were called Clare before. You are no longer Clare, she does not exist. She made a request to be dollifed last month which was approved by no less a figure than the Member of Parliament, Jacob Hunter. She signed over all her rights to me until she completes doll school and has a new guardian. Do not fear, there is one already lined up and you shall be with him in a week’s time. His name is Mr. Martin Letchworth and he is a hat manufacturer from Luton. In the interim you shall accustom yourself to your new reality.
At present you have no name, as is the norm for all the dolls in this institution. Your husband shall name you when you come into his care. You will stay in his care until your dying day as, once married, you are, of course, his personal property. He believes you to be 16-years old and to have chosen this course in life freely. Naturally, he shall never learn otherwise, for not only are you now a doll but you are also a full-time Lady of Leisure and therefore communication is forbidden.
Naturally, as a doll, you are to have no opinions and no personality. You are just to be. This is something that we engrain in our students from the day that they are first dollified. However, I do appreciate that whilst they have years to acclimatise themselves to their new reality – and many of them have chosen such a reality – neither apply to you. Therefore, I shall allow you a question, the last that you will ever be allowed to ask. Edith, pass her the pen and notebook.”
The maid passed me the pen and, in my trembling, rubberised hand, I took it and wrote shakily, “Why me?”
The maid passed it to the headmistress who looked at me with a pitying, almost human look for the first and last time ever. “Why you? To put it simple, because you became involved with Jacob Hunter MP. He is a married man with a penchant for young girls. But there are problems with such a hobby, particularly when your wife is the niece of the Prime Minister. So, he keeps his mistresses well-hidden in the house that he has bought specifically for that purpose – 34 Bedford Place I believe – and enjoys them until he is bored of them. And then he contacts us, drugs them and dollifies them, leaving this institution to dispose of them to loving husbands or guardians. A tad unethical maybe, but extremely profitable; it is his donations to this institution that are funding my retirement in Eastbourne. And why does he dollify them? Because a doll can never tell the newspapers about his infidelities. It guarantees silence and respectability and for a man with hopes of becoming prime minister one day, that is worth more than gold.”
And so, I became a doll and am a doll to this day. The evil bastard! He goes around fucking whatever girl he wants, taking their youth and innocence and then casting them on the scrapheap as I was, turning them into dolls, silence and placid.
And while he fucks, I merely dream about it, long for it, am driven crazy by this ache in my loins, locked away by a chastity belt put there by a man who is well-intentioned but thinks I’m a 16-year old virgin innocent of the ecstasies of the bedchamber.
God, I hate them all!
13th November 1967
Wednesday was the highlight of this week. Not that it was exactly a highlight, but it was a change and for me that means everything. What tortures me the most (well, about from the frustration down there) is the boredom. How could anyone, ever, choose to become a doll? It is so dull! Just sitting and waiting and then more sitting and waiting and then… you get the picture. I guess to choose such a life you would need to be born into it, to be educated into it from birth so that you think this is what women should be and imagine that being a beautiful (in a weird kind of way) mannequin is the highest ideal that a woman can strive for. Either that or you’re just plain weird. My guess though, based purely on my own experience, is that many of those who “choose” such an arduous path in life are, in fact, forced. This is slavery in the twentieth century. No shackles, chains and manacles, but instead an elegant monoglove, tight corset and false, ceramic smiling face.
But I digress. Wednesday. Wednesday was this week’s highlight because on Wednesday we received an unexpected visitor. It was no less a personage than the Duchess of Devonshire, formerly known as Rebecca Huntington, and one of those weird posh girls who used to visit Daniel.
She came with her maid, her mouth firmly gagged with a fleur de bouche and her arms restrained in the more lenient gigot sleeves manner. Daniel was delighted when he saw her and kissed her cheek before circling her narrow waist – though a full inch broader than mine I do declare! – with his hands. She was shown into the drawing room and her gag removed. She introduced herself to me and then proceeded to chat to my guardian, reliving the good old days when she was a student at the Berkhamsted School for Girls and used to visit Daniel as part of her Community Service lessons. And then, to my astonishment, “for old times’ sake”, she knelt down in front of him, let him unfasten his trousers and proceeded to bring him to completion orally before swallowing his seed and then licking his member clean. Daniel was overjoyed, declaring that she “hadn’t lost any of her skills” and then, calm as you like, they both sat down again and proceeded to discuss her marriage with the Duke of Devonshire and my wardship with Daniel. He told her that I was an excellent house doll and that my presence brought him untold joy, at which point they both turned to me and smiled, and then moved onto another topic.
Sometime later, after they had both consumed a couple of cups of tea, Daniel excused himself in order to use the toilet and us two ladies were left alone together. As soon as he was out of the room, the Duchess stood up with great grace and elegance and walked across to me. Then she stared at my false face and began to speak: “I told everyone that I came here today to see dear old Dr. Edwards and to a degree that is true, but to a greater degree it is a rather large lie. Indeed, what fascinates me the most is not him, but you. I have a cousin who is thinking of dollification and an old school friend who embraced it last year. The whole idea fascinates me: what would make a girl do such a thing? How do you live? What is it like to be permanently silent and helpless? I must admit, the idea both frightens and fascinates me. It also excites me. Oh, how I wish you could talk, you sexy little minx. What secrets could you tell? And what is it like to lie with a doll? I did not tell Dr. Edwards of course, but since marriage I have discovered the joys of sex and I enjoy a lot of it. But little is with my husband. Instead his sister, a darling thing of only seventeen years is my most regular lover. To lie with a woman is exquisite, but to lie with a woman who had been dollified, now I wonder what that is like? We shall not find out of course, but we can do something else…” And then, to my shock and amazement, she leaned over and kissed my faux lips, her tongue entering my stuffed and modified mouth channel. She lingered there for some seconds and then withdrew, panting, her enormous breasts heaving, as too were mine which had been pressed so tightly against hers.
“That was… different,” she declared, staring into my glass eyes. The lips feel soft, almost real, and the inside of your mouth is exquisite, like a second vagina almost, but the rigid, unmoving, expressionless face… I don’t know, I really don’t know. Oh, my dear Libby, you are a woman of mystery, you truly are. I just wish I could unravel your secrets.” And with those words, she returned to her seat and sat down. Moments later, Daniel reappeared. “Have you two ladies been getting on well?” he asked.
“We’ve been having some female bonding,” replied the Duchess with an almost imperceptible wink.
Twenty minutes left… I shall return to my story.
So, I was a doll. They had made me into that. He had. The evil bastard! The man I had loved, trusted even. He took my humanity away. That evening my maid stood me in front of the mirror and I saw what I had become. A rubberised mannequin with enormous breasts (40H I later learnt) and an unreal face. For some reason, perhaps pity, she explained it all to me. She told me that the skin had been coated with a rubberised, breathable material, sprayed on whilst hot and then cooled to my contours. It is permanent. She told me that in the old days, living dolls had to wear latex suits that were removed every few weeks for cleaning. She expanded on this with horror stories about internal plumbing whereby girls consumed their own wastes and thus never needed the toilet. She believed the current situation to be a vast improvement. “The smell when those suits were removed was horrific! I’m just glad that the girls were knocked out with sleeping gas when we did it.” So, maybe I was the lucky one, not being born a decade or two earlier, but it didn’t feel like it.
My head looked vaguely familiar. She explained that my fiancé had a thing for an actress whom he’d also known growing up and had a crush on. He’d wanted to marry her but, to his disgust, she’d declared that she would not wed until thirty, wishing to concentrate on her career. And so, he had created me instead. Later, one day when I was seated in front of a TV, I saw her in a film playing a star-crossed lover. Her name was Olivia Capulet and I cried internally as I watched.
It was explained that the head was made personally for me, with the internal gag fitted first, expanded to the maximum, and then the headpiece attached in two parts, then glued together and the wig, a mane of ebony locks, affixed. It was beautiful… I am beautiful… but in a weird, unreal way, my piercing blue eyes staring at you mindlessly.
The only things that remained of the old Clare Warwick were the stays that squeezed my waist into a miniscule 13 inches. Oh yes, and the chastity belt that had once covered my privates in school. That was back too. No sexual relief until marriage.
But that marriage was not far off. My fiancé visited one day. He was a youngish man and not unattractive. He cooed over me and encircled my waist with his hands. He had a dream of the perfect woman and had created me in pursuit of that dream. As I passively let him fondle my huge, firm, surging breasts, I wondered what life with him would be like. I was never to find out. The very next day he was killed in a motor accident.
I didn’t mourn him as I didn’t know him, but his death threw them into a panic. What does one do with a doll who has already been modified to someone else’s specifications? She’s an expensive liability, a burden that no one wants to take on except at a knocked-down price. Then fate intervened: one of those freaky girls from the posh school came around. She claimed that she, along with some friends, wanted to buy a doll to keep an old man company. I was on the shelf and I was cheap, and, by chance, Olivia Capulet was this old guy’s favourite. So, I became the ward of Dr. Daniel Edwards and the rest is history.
As too is this session, for the alarm is ringing.