Janet picked up one of the dolls, dressed in a billowy violet nightgown. She cradled it in her arm, its head against her bosom. A dull ache filled my chest, but Janet appraised the doll impassively.
Her Babies by Steven Gullion is, perhaps, overwrought, but it’s also a good old-fashioned yarn of a disturbing and disquieting sort, and embodies the “unity of effect” that Poe so admired very nicely.
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