THE HILL OF DREAMS
'Come in, Joe,' she said. 'It's just as I thought it would be: "Death by misadventure";' and she held up a little empty bottle of dark blue glass that was standing on the desk. 'He would take it, and I always knew he would take a drop too much one of these days.'
'What's all those papers that he's got there?'
'Didn't I tell you? It was crool to see him. He'd got it into 'is 'ead he could write a book; he's been at it for the last six months. Look 'ere.'
She spread the neat pile of manuscript broadcast over the desk, and took a sheet at haphazard. It was all covered with illegible hopeless scribblings; only here and there it was possible to recognise a word.
'Why, nobody could read it, if they wanted to.'
'It's all like that. He thought it was beautiful. I used to 'ear him jabbering to himself about it, dreadful nonsense it was he used to talk. I did my best to tongue him out of it, but it wasn't any good.'
'He must have been a bit dotty. He's left you everything?'
'Yes.'
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