Dorothy Walker

At five-feet-four, Dorothy Walker was dwarfed by her Amazonian friend; and, not to put too fine a point on it, was just about as pretty as any human being had a right to be.  Her hair was dark brown and wavy, a type specifically chosen by God Above to suit the above-shoulders length mandated by WESC.  Its sheen was so bright and shiny that it cast shadows.

Her eyes were bright blue; her eyebrows dark and so finely drawn that you wondered if Ingres had a hand in them.  Her nose was long and regal and her complexion quite up to goddess standards.  And while she was so sweet and endearing that you were happy to take her home to meet Mum, her breasts, hips, and buttocks were quite capable of putting Dad in his place.

But roll each of those features in a bundle and toss in every beauty of the universe to boot—every snowcapped mountain shining white and crystal-clear in the light of day, every sunrise reflecting silver over every metallic ocean, every evening meteor shower etching pink streaks in the violet sky of undiscovered planets in undiscovered galaxies spiraling away to infinity—roll them all together, and they still wouldn’t equal the beauty of her smile.  Had she turned it just once on Herr Hitler, Der Führer would have flinched, shrugged his shoulders, and returned the Sudetenland to the Czechs.