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After a day or two's inquiries, therefore, and finding that from eighteen to twenty of his youngest and most respectable yeomanry had not only returned him their arms and appointments, but actually held themselves ready to be enrolled in the Annagh Corps for so Hartley's was termed he sat down and wrote the following letter to Lord Cumber: "Constitution Cottage, June
Your success, of course, is great, Doctor Isaacson. Indeed, I wonder you are able to take a holiday. I wonder the ladies will let you go." He smiled, and touched his moustache affectionately. "Why the ladies, especially?" "I understood your practice lay chiefly among the neurotic smart women of London." "No." Isaacson's voice echoed the dryness of Doctor Hartley's. "I'm sorry." "May I ask why?"
Lately, when I wished to settle with him about the rent of our house, he appeared much affected, told me that my living near him, and the having so much of Hartley's company were great comforts to him and his housekeeper, that he had no children to provide for, and did not mean to marry; and in short, that he did not want any rent at all from me.
And the gaps in the enlisted ranks could be kept filled from the new classes which universal service would account for. See Hartley's little plan? He could go on wearin' his shoulder straps and shiny leggins and maybe in time he'd have a gold or silver poison ivy leaf instead of the bar.
I now devoted myself to poetry and to the study of ethics and psychology; and so profound was my admiration at this time of Hartley's ESSAY ON MAN, that I gave his name to my first-born.
"I wonder," she said softly, "if you would care to tell me why?" Vane knit his brows. "Hartley's dead, and I understand that his daughter has broken down after nursing him. It's doubtful whether her situation can be kept open, and it may be some time before she's strong enough to look for another." He hesitated. "In a way, I feel responsible for her."
Coryndon held his sobbing breath and crept along the shadows, watching the man closely until the danger zone was passed, and then he ran on around the sharp angle of the house and dived into Hartley's room. In the centre stood the bed, draped in the ghostly outlines of white mosquito-curtains, and Coryndon walked lightly over the matted floor and shook the bed gently.
"Farmer Hartley's gran'f'ther was the last miller," replied Bubble Chirk. "My father used to say he could just remember him, standin' at the mill-door, all white with flour, an' rubbin' his hands and laughin', jes' the way Farmer does. He was a good miller, father said, an' made the mill pay well.
Their near approach seemed to render Desborough impatient: "I expect, officers," he said, with a hastiness that, at any other moment, would have called down immediate reproof, if not chastisement, "you will only be losin' time here for nothin' About a mile beyond Hartley's there'll be plenty of pattridges at this hour, and I am jist goin' to start myself for a little shootin' in the Sandusky river."
Mill, as his son testifies, had been profoundly influenced by Hartley's treatise the 'really master-production, as he esteemed it, 'in the philosophy of mind. Hartley's work, as the younger Mill thought, and the elder apparently agreed, was very superior to the 'merely verbal generalisation of Condillac. James Mill, however, admired Condillac and his successors.
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