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By DON BECKER
FICTIONIZED By HOPE HALE
ILLUSTRATED BY RAYMOND SISLEY
BEGIN THIS RADIO DRAMA OF A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN WHO WIL
LINGLY BECAME THE TOWN OUT
CAST FOR A LOVE SHE'D LOST
LIFE OF
Here's the heroine, Mary, in The Life of Mary Sothern, heard on the CBS network at 5:15 P.M., Monday through Friday.
Editors Note: When such radio-minded towns as Cincinnati and Chicago vote a program the most popular of all day-time broadcasts, it deserves more than local audiences. The Life of Mary Sothern, ■written and directed by Don Becker, is receiving that "cognition this fall after three years on WLW and WGN-on October 4th, it was introduced on the CBS network sponsored by Lehn &■ Fink. For all who have lust begun to follow tins program and for all who are seeking a corking good yarn, here is the complete story —m two parts. y
arved
MARY. The man behind the great car. desk smiled. "You couldn't do that to me.' To you?" The girl came to attention, up out of the deep white chair. White silk outlined
her firmly modeled, vibrant figure. "Not to you. Oh, Paul, no. It's just— I feel I have to go — "
Searching for words to express this curious driving force within her, Mary's thoughts milled in her mind. , . .
This was the great Paul Cranshaw. It was his word that told vast millions what motion pictures they couiq see. Yet she could call him Paul. She, Mary Sothern, whose whole world had been against her three short years ago. could sit across this man's desk and look at a contract on which were typed six round figures for her next years work, and she could turn away again and never litt a linger to the pen. What was the matter with her?
II right," Cranshaw said quietly. "Go' somep ace. Palm Springs. Caliente. Any place. Take a vacation.
Mary fell back against the wall — blood was streaming from his hand. Could she escape?
You'll feel different when you get a rest—" The girl's head turned swiftly. A bar of sunshine from the Venetian blind caught in her hair, made a dazzling highlight in the room. "Oh, no. No, Paul. That's not it. It's not a vacation I need. All this—" Her hand, smooth strong live, beckoned the dark wood panels, the chromium, the mirrors, the pigskin and ebony, even the sun outside on red and orange and yellow flowers, she caught it all into the picture with a gesture that was art. All this has been vacation to me. I must go— home
Cranshaw's voice seemed even quieter when he spoke^ "That would be a laugh to the people who worked with you on 'Sandra Allen.' Calling it a vacation But I think I understand, Mary. I know what homesickness is. But Mary— in your case, where is (Continued on page ?4)