The first time Edward Hawthorne saw a person who wasn't there, he was standing in front of his easel in the studio on Beacon Street, paintbrush suspended in mid-air, and he thought: *I am finally ill.*
Not ill in the way that physicians understood illness. He had no fever. His hands were steady. His mind was clear, or as clear as it had ever been. No, this was something else—something that the physicians of 1893 Boston had no name for, or if they did, they were too polite to use it in conversation. The person he saw was an old man, sitting in the corner of his studio where the shadows were...
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