In the background were cotton balls. Her body was made of shiny porcelain, and jewels and rings crowded her fingers and arms. She sat cross-legged, her peroxide hair falling thinly over her shoulders, and her expression was one of greedy self-satisfaction. It was utterly grotesque. The title, printed on a small card, was Margaux Souvenir. A cold wash ran through my body. Paul laughed, understanding nothing, but I knew how Margaux felt about the world.
