She’s coming to life under my hands. The dark, untidy mass of her hair, the bright eyes, the frill of her white dress, her sash, her parasol. She’s floating in the liquid, becoming more and more real. I jiggle the tray and peer closer. She is ready no; finished; perfect. I lift her out, shake the paper, peg it up and let it drip. I sit down on the stool in the dark room and gaze at her.
— Gaynor Arnold, After Such Kindness (Tindal Street, 2012), p. 1