Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1963)

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BURTON TELLS HOW IT ALL HAPPENED “I say, Richard, I’m calling from New York . . . tell me, how is your eye? Is it very bad?” I was calling Richard Burton. He was in his diggings in London’s elegant Dorchester Hotel; nursing a black eye, cut face, bruised body, aching back and worst of all, injured dignity. Liz Taylor was at the Dorchester, too, lending Richard what we might call “moral support.” She was much calmer now. Her screams of horror and shock at the sight of the wounded Burton had long since subsided. But Liz was indisposed herself and at the moment, for all we know, Richard may have been readying some “moral support” for her. She had just returned from the hospital where she had had a forty-five minute “manipulated (Please turn the page) 15