His dress shabby though he tried to keep his clothes clean and mended, bereft, largely solitary after his father became crippled. Never discovered the whereabouts of tranquil flowered landscapes populated by children and fantastic creatures. Dedicated every remaining day to composing a single-spaced fantasy manuscript whose endless pages concluded: “I had a very poor nothing like Christmas. Never had a good Christmas all my life, nor a good new year, and now I am very bitter but fortunately not revengeful, though I feel should be how I am”