Indelible i.m. Evelyn McHale, 1947   Any colour that he wants, so long as it is black.  —Henry Ford, 1922   Life’s suicide, soft as tissue, crumpled on the chassis. Her hair had been curled meticulously, darkened to match her good wool skirt, carefully flat-ironed, her stockings hung out to dry by the window.   A press of faces, black-and-white. Another fallen child of the war, a woman murmured. The detective arrived, damp in his trenchcoat and removed his hat in thought or veneration,   then eyed her naked feet. Shoes slipped off on the edge: one sole worn right…

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