In a small room in an English country house, famed Author Thomas Hardy lay sick in bed. Frail, 87, a little querulous in his talk, he still seemed unaccustomed to this invalid ease, the result of a chill he lad caught a month before. His hands, as thin and brown as claws, played nervously with the edge of his quilt. James Barrie came to talk to him; Hardy's peaked mournful face was turned sideways on its pillow, his voice seemed shrill and tired as he spoke to the writer who, with himself, shares...
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