In Manhattan's Memorial Hospital last week, a visitor dropped in on the patient in Room 941. They had met only once before, in 1944, but recognized each other on sight. The patient, a writer, had whimsically described his caller then as "a large and most distinguished looking figure, in beautifully tailored, soft white flannels." That time the visitor had not really been looking for him. This time, when he left, Death took Alfred Damon Runyon, 66, with him.
The other encounter, a close call, had spared Runyon's life but struck him dumb. His larynx...
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