A few days later he wrote again: The book is glorious-simply noble. Howells is going away, he said, and I should like to give him a stag-party. He did not dwell upon his condition, I think, but spokerather of his plans for the summer. conception, and rarely worked out--other portionsbeing merely grotesque, in which the illusion of reality vanishes.
It was the winter in London of twenty-five yearsbefore over again. Claude, the butler, had prepared the table with fine artistry--its centera mass of roses. He was in Chicago eleven days, and in bedwith a heavy cold almost the whole of that time. I can truthfully testify that neveruntil the last year of his life did he willingly lay down the billiard-cue, or show the least suggestion of fatigue.
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