ABSTRACT
Eliza Lynn Linton Yesterday a stranger called on me. The boy said Harvey. I was in a fume – could not make out who it was – went round and round the central point, till the stranger said he was going out of town today. ‘Where?’ says I. ‘To Dorchester’, says he. Then I ups with a shout and a clapping of my hands, and says I, ‘Oh, now I know who you are! You are Thomas Hardy and not Harvey’ – (the author of Far from the Madding Crowd, etc.). He was so pleased when I was so pleased, and stayed here for two hours. He is a nice bit manny, but of a sadder and more pessimistic nature than I am. It was very nice to see him. We have missed each other twenty times. He said his wife wants to see me, she had heard I was so handsome!!! Says I, ‘Then tell her I am not.’ Says he, ‘No, I certainly cannot do that, because you are!’ So there, Miss Lucy, compliments in one’s old age!
