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Show Poor Wiley Brown. His youth was filled with promise, but the fibre of his brain had somewhere a flaw. As this extended his eccentricities became accentuated, and the motive centers benumbed. Of late years his old self never appeared save in flashes like those of a candle before it finally burns out. His death must have been a welcome release, but we are all more or less to blame for the cruel manner of it. He should, years ago, have been restrained, in some comfortable sanitarium; that he was not, is a reproach to us all who have seen down what steps he was descending. Poor Brown. May the final calm bring compensation for all he has suffered. |