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It's like when Mitchum passed.
I tell myself, if Tura Satana can die, none of us is exempt.
I'll remember her not merely as a beautiful face or as a low-cut, tightly packed blouse, but as a clenched fist, encased in black leather and raised in righteous defiance of hard life and its inevitable repossession. A worthy image to leave behind, and not her only one.