She had the teeth of luck, she walked barefoot, there was always a bottle of champagne to share in his fridge, she had been the wife of Maurice Ronet, his hair short and auburn framed a triangular face, a look at the marking that is clear, it was thin and flexible, it had retained the silhouette of his teenage years, his voice was harmonious, rather serious, slightly scratched a lisping child, its rate of flow bright, his intelligence, and joyful. All this composed his truth the more evident, and it was irresistible.
Maria Pacôme, who died Saturday, December 1, at his home, Ballainvilliers, Essonne, france) was not quite as we would expect in keeping the cascade of comedies that it illuminated his talent and generous end, to the cinema, to the theatre, as television since the beginning of the 1950s.
She wore a mask. She put a lot of time to tell what had really built, and …
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