Putting the doll’s house together takes longer than she had expected, and is made more rather than less difficult by the fact that she does not require the interior floors. After getting almost all the way there she has to go back and remove the voice box, and discreetly stamp on it until it stops talking. All the same, a little less than half an hour later she is the proud owner of a tabletop television studio comprised of two side walls and a green screen/cosmetics mirror at the back, this last having round, frosted lightbulbs around it in a pattern which the accompanying leaflet claims is "industry standard." She considers the angles in the cafe and adds the studio’s half-roof (with scale model Fresnel lamps which actually illuminate the stage below) and rests the clipboard in the space where the stage should be. She sharpens the pencils and gathers some stationery, and sits, recognising that she has created in effect a miniature version of Hunter’s house for her own use: a space into which the Witness—with all its thousand eyes—cannot look. Instinctively, she feels dirty and ashamed. She wonders if she should apologise to the machine, and how it would tag that action. Uncommon politeness? Or something it should flag for the attention of Pippa Keene? Or both?