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Fowler settled down again to his morning run-and-dip, his pipe, his work, his wife. As she grew older, both knew she was dying of cancer: neither ever mentioned the subject to the other. They lived in a cottage all their lives, never kept a servant. When she died (1930) he tried manfully to go on with his old-bachelor ways, but he was an old man himself by then. His morning run became a walk, then a snooze by the fire. Three years later, at the age of 75. Lexicographer Fowler quietly joined his lady.