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Today, under the lacquered blue-enamel sky, in a black-belted black dress, stepping out of the nap-time grasp of an SUV, Morena Baccarin is clearly — honest-to-God, and to every vision of woman ever beheld, without a hint of exaggeration or intended pain to anyone who’s borne the title before or will bear it hence — the most beautiful woman in the world.
Never mind where — west and north of L.A., in a kind of near-desert, in the parking lot of a wine bar, her jet hair (...)