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You stand under a little portico and knock. A shaggy, untidy ball bounds around the corner, knocks itself against your knees, barking unreasonably. A female voice from within: "Wessie! Wessie! Are you misbehaving again!"
At length you are admitted, your impedimenta disposed of. Mrs. Hardy, dark, small, preoccupied: ''The dog is a nuisance . . . Still unused to callers . . . Loves attention . . . Mr. Hardy will be glad to see you. He will not write autographs. He has had some unfortunate experiences with interviewers. Still, there are many visitors. Miss Amy Lowell has been here, and Mr. Clement Shorter, and Mr. Dudley Field Malone, an American—who is Mr. Malone?" Wessie tries so furiously to eat wood out of the fireplace that he is at length led away, struggling, whining.
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Heh, heh. From Brennecke, E. (1925). The life of Thomas Hardy. New York: Greenberg, inc.. 3-4.
Heh, heh. From Brennecke, E. (1925). The life of Thomas Hardy. New York: Greenberg, inc.. 3-4.
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