At 8 o'clock one morning during the past week, a young housemaid went up the stairs of a big London house to awaken her master, John Singer Sargent. She found him dead on his pillow with a volume spread open, face down, on the reading table beside him. Physicians who arrived to pronounce the inevitable, grisly abracadabra, said that he had died in his sleep of an apoplectic seizure. So, at the age of 69, ended the life of an eminent and talented gentleman who has been recognized for the last 30 years...
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