I have no shame in admitting that I am the generation of the American Girl Doll. I had Felicity, the Boston tea-party era chick who enjoyed horses and parlor sitting. I was happy with Fel, but I did sometimes grow envious of the girl down the street who owned the Victorian one from Boston. There was something about her books (mostly the description of her home and her lace up boots) that made me question whether I had picked the right one. I imagine she would have this bust sitting in her burgundy-velvet curtained window overlooking Commonwealth. Alas, probably without the plants.
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