Two things I love: Opera and Thomas Hardy (not to be confused with actor Tom Hardy, whom I also love).
Ella Marchmill is on holiday with her husband, William, and their three children at a seaside resort. William is a gunmaker. (We dislike him already, as Hardy intended.) The house where they’re staying has two rooms reserved, says their landlady, for a young poet: “… a different sort of young man from most – dreamy, solitary, rather melancholy …”