She’s the sort of girl who was the school tomboy, who at school shouted the loudest. She was the black-stockinged youngster, who, good or bad at them, played all the games with more vigor and energy than the rest of the team. She was the one who never bothered about dental braces or spinach.
Ever since I left Rosalind Russell I have been poring over the fancy nourishes beneath the Declaration of Independence — through John Hancock, the Adams boys and Button Gwinnett.
So far I haven’t uncovered a Russell. Only a very unusual inspiration, I’m sure, could drive me to such extensive historical research and abstract speculation. But then Miss Rosalind Russell is indeed unusual. She is a Declaration of Independence walking.