Welcome to Vintage Paparazzi.


For many, many months, all of Hollywood has been worrying about romance for Ann Blyth. Gossips have tried desperately to link her name with that of any one of a handful of eligible young men. And while the town wondered—and even fretted a little, for everyone agreed that Ann was ready for romance—she went quietly on in her own way, dreaming and waiting. And planning.

In a town where marriages are too often tossed aside as casually as last year’s Easter bonnet, Ann has held firmly to her ideal—a union that was solid and real and lasting. Her hope chest has been a real hope chest, filled with the linens and laces and silks with which she has always yearned to deck her home, and wrapped round tenderly in her dreams and prayers.

She has had no set picture of what the man she’d one day marry would look like. “It doesn’t matter whether he’s tall or short, or dark or blond.” But she cherished a picture of tenderness and humor and understanding.

It may be a slight to the movie community that Ann has made her choice not from among the dashing heroes of the screen, but that she will go to the altar, instead, with Dr. James McNulty, a Los Angeles obstetrician. But Ann knows now why she was waiting. And she has the warmest wishes of ali of Movietown.



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