The Press: The King Is Dead

Veiled in palm trees, atop one of the lushest Beverly Hills, the great cream-tinted house was heavily guarded against intruders. But one who trespassed there this week was not to be stopped by guards. By appointment, Death had come calling on a guest in the house—an old adversary, one whose stubbornness he could not help admiring. In his 89th year, the end had finally come for William Randolph Hearst, the capricious, inspired, ruthless and sentimental, sybaritic press lord.

The bulletin that came out of Los Angeles was, of all news stories, the one he...

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