Instead, here he is, dressed in pyjamas rather than his signature Dickensian garb, ensconced in a hospital bed.
Life for the legendary publisher Peter Owen should have been one heady round of parties last month, culminating in a champagne-fuelled evening in his elegant, ivy-clad home in London’s Holland Park, attended by the glitterati and the literati, indeed anyone who’s anyone in British letters.
Instead, here he is, dressed in pyjamas rather than his signature Dickensian garb, ensconced in a hospital bed.