Anne MacAree took off the black sable coat and handed it to the photographer’s assistant. She glanced back at Louise, the photographer, who called after her, “Thanks so much, Anne. These are going to be terrific.”
Anne had just finished shooting several ads for Evans Furs. They were having an end-of-winter sale, and the ads would be appearing in the Tribune toward the end of March.
The weariness overcame her as she sat in the cramped studio dressing room. As she tissued off her makeup she noticed how tired she looked, not a good sign for a professional. There were dark rings around her eyes that the makeup had buried. Her shoulder-length blunt-cut black hair didn’t have the oriental sheen it usually did. Her eyes lacked something—vivacity.
She ran a brush through her hair and put all of
