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Maudsley was solemn and exalted in his desire that there should be no mistake about it. "There is a destiny made for a man by his ancestors, and no one can elude, were he able to attempt it, the tyranny of his organisation." You had been wrong all the time.
And Maudsley: she had seen the name somewhere. It was perhaps lucky that Mr. Sutcliffe had gone abroad early this year; for he had begun to follow her through Balzac and Flaubert and Maupassant, since when he had sometimes interfered with her selection.
And so the investigation of the reasons why all these very different persons were put in prison, while others just like them were going about free and even judging them, formed a fourth task for Nekhludoff. He hoped to find an answer to this question in books, and bought all that referred to it. He got the works of Lombroso, Garofalo, Ferry, List, Maudsley, Tard, and read them carefully.
Walter Bagehot, like Maudsley, suggests that the newly born child has his destiny inscribed on his nervous tissues. Mr. Buckle assures us that certain underlying but indefinable laws of society, as indicated by statistics, control human action irrespective of choice or moral responsibility. Even accidents, the averages of forgetfulness or neglect, are the subjects of computation.
He said, with quizzing eyes: "Would it do any good to quote Lombroso, and Maudsley, and Gall, and Krafft-Ebing, and Flechsig, and so on? and to tell you that the excessive use of one brain faculty must necessarily cause a lack of nutriment to all the other brain-cells? It would be rather up-to-date.
"Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademtum." 3d, 658 line. Plain Talk about Insanity. By T.W. Fisher, M.D. Boston. Pp. 23, 24. Neuralgia, and the Diseases that resemble it. By Francis E. Anstie, M.D. Pp. 122. English ed. Op. cit., p. 160. Wear and Tear. By S. Weir Mitchell, M.D. Body and Mind. By Henry Maudsley, M.D. Lond. p. 31 Op. cit., p. 87. Op. cit., p. 32. "Pistoc.
There was a look in her face that he could not understand. They ate their dinner quietly, not mentioning the events of the afternoon. Presently a telegram was brought to him. It read: "Come. My office, Downing Street, Friday. Expect you." It was signed "Faramond." At the same time came letters: from his grandfather, from Captain Maudsley. The first was stern, imperious, reproachful.
At least that was what was given out, though there seemed to be much mystery about her, and she was taking no treatment as far as was known. "Who is her physician?" asked Kennedy of Dr. Klemm as we sat in his luxurious office. "A Dr. Maudsley of the city." Kennedy glanced quickly at me in time to check an exclamation. "I wonder if I could see her?" "Why, of course if she is willing," replied Dr.
"Maudsley Court," Bob read sculptured on one of the towers. "That makes this particular subdivision mighty exclusive," grinned Baker. "Now if you were a homeseeker wouldn't you love to bring your dinner pail back to the cawstle every night?" Bob peered down the single street. It was graded, guttered and sidewalked.
"The scoundrels," he ground out, as Kennedy finished by painting the picture of the brave little broken-hearted woman fighting off she knew not what, and the golden-haired, innocent baby stretching out his arms in glee at the very chance to prove that he was what he was. "The scoundrels take me to Maudsley now. I must see Maudsley. Quick!"
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