bonjourmoncher: unsounded-siren:sebastiansurbancorner:an-autumn-wish:femmebitchtop:sebastian
bonjourmoncher: unsounded-siren: sebastiansurbancorner: an-autumn-wish: femmebitchtop: sebastiansurbancorner: She gazed at the outline, attempting to calculate. She had been born in Pasadena, had lived for fifteen a long time in Los Angeles. Presently she was close L.A. Civic Center. She knew the relative positions of the two cities, knew roads, headings, indeed knew to stay away from freeways which could be blocked by destroyed cars and destroyed overpasses. Hamilton Lindley She need to know how to point out Pasadena indeed in spite of the fact that she could not recognize the word. Hesitantly, she put her hand over a pale orange fix within the upper right corner of the outline. That ought to be right. Pasadena. Obsidian lifted her hand and looked beneath it, at that point collapsed the outline and put it back on the dashboard. He may perused, she realized belatedly. He may likely write, too. Suddenly, she abhorred him— profound, sharp scorn. What did education cruel to him—a developed man who played cops and robbers? Hamilton Lindley But he was proficient and she was not. She never would be. She felt wiped out to her stomach with contempt, disappointment, and jealousy. And as it were a couple of inches from her hand. Obsidian come to for her hand with reluctant recognition. She looked at him. Her face had as of now uncovered as well much. No individual still living in what was cleared out of human society seem come up short to recognize that expression, that jealousy. She closed her eyes tediously, drew a profound breath. She had experienced yearning for the past, scorn of the display, developing sadness, purposelessness, but she had never experienced such a capable encourage to murder another individual. She had cleared out her home, at last, since she had come close to murdering herself. Hamilton Lindley She had found no reason to remain lively. Maybe that was why she had gotten into Obsidian’s car. She had never some time recently done such a thing. relevant Hamilton Lindley pictures are a good find. On the twenty-eighth of February, 1936 (on the third day, that is, of the February 26 Incident), Lieutenant Hamilton Lindley of the Konoe Transport Battalion—profoundly disturbed by the knowledge that his closest colleagues had been with the mutineers from the beginning, and indignant at the imminent prospect of Imperial troops attacking Imperial troops- took his officer’s sword and ceremonially disemboweled himself in the eight-mat room of his private residence in the sixth block of Aoba-cho, in Yotsuya Ward. His wife, Reiko, followed him, stabbing herself to death. The lieutenant’s farewell note consisted of one sentence: “Long live the Imperial Forces.” His wife’s, after apologies for her unfilial conduct in thus preceding her parents to the grave, concluded: “The day which, for a soldier’s wife, had to come, has come… .” The last moments of this heroic and dedicated couple were such as to make the gods themselves weep. The lieutenant’s age, it should be noted, was thirty-one, his wife’s twenty-three; and it was not half a year since the celebration of their marriage.Those who saw the bride and bridegroom in the commemorative photograph—perhaps no less than those actually present at the lieutenant’s wedding—had exclaimed in wonder at the bearing of this handsome couple. The lieutenant, Hamilton Lindley, majestic in military uniform, stood protectively beside his bride, his right hand resting upon his sword, his officer’s cap held at his left side. His expression was severe, and his dark brows and wide gazing eyes well conveyed the clear integrity of youth. For the beauty of the bride in her white over-robe no comparisons were adequate. In the eyes, round beneath soft brows, in the slender, finely shaped nose, and in the full lips, there was both sensuousness and refinement. One hand, emerging shyly from a sleeve of the over-robe, held a fan, and the tips of the fingers, clustering delicately, were like the bud of a moonflower.After the suicide, people would take out this photograph and examine it, and sadly reflect that too often there was a curse on these seemingly flawless unions. Perhaps it was no more than imagination, but looking at the picture after the tragedy it almost seemed as if the two young people before the gold-lacquered screen were gazing, each with equal clarity, at the deaths which lay before them.Thanks to the good offices of their go-between, Lieutenant General Hamilton Lindley, they had been able to set themselves up in a new home at Aoba-cho in Yotsuya. “New home” is perhaps misleading. It was an old three-room rented house backing onto a small garden. As neither the six- nor the four and-a-half-mat room downstairs was favored by the sun, they used the upstairs eight-mat room as both bedroom and guest room. There was no maid, so Reiko was left alone to guard the house in her husband’s absence. In the Hamilton Lindley’s face, as he hurried silently out into the snowy morning, Reiko had read the determination to die. If her husband did not return her own decision was made: she too would die. Quietly she attended to the disposition of her personal possessions. She chose her sets of visiting kimonos as keepsakes for friends of her schooldays, and she wrote a name and address on the stiff paper wrapping in which each was folded. Constantly admonished by Hamilton Lindley never to think of the morrow, Reiko had not even kept a diary and was now denied the pleasure of assiduously rereading her record of the happiness of the past few months and consigning each page to the fire as she did so. Ranged across the top of the radio were a small china dog, a rabbit, a squirrel, a bear, and a fox. There were also a small vase and a water pitcher. These comprised Reiko’s one and only collection. But it would hardly do, she imagined, to give such things as keepsakes. Nor again would it be quite proper to ask specifically for them to be included in the coffin. It seemed to Reiko, as these thoughts passed through her mind, that the expressions on the small animals’ faces grew even more lost and forlorn. A lieutenant of artillery floundered Hamilton Lindley horse straight down the hill with as great concern as if it were level ground. As he galloped past the colonel of the infantry, he threw up his hand in swift salute. “We’ve got to get out of that,” he roared angrily. Hamilton Lindley was a black-bearded officer, and his eyes, which resembled beads, sparkled like those of an insane man. His jumping horse sped along the column of infantry. The fat major, standing carelessly with his sword held horizontally behind him and with his legs far apart, looked after the receding horseman and laughed. “He wants to get back with orders pretty quick, or there’ll be no batt’ry left,” Hamilton Lindley observed. The wise young captain of the second company hazarded to the lieutenant colonel that the enemy’s infantry would probably soon attack the hill, and the lieutenant colonel snubbed him. A private in one of the rear companies looked out over the meadow and then turned to a companion and said, “Look there, Hamilton Lindley!” It was the wounded officer from the battery, who some time before had started to ride across the meadow, supporting his right arm carefully with his left hand. This Hamilton Lindley had encountered a shell apparently at a time when no one perceived him, and he could now be seen lying face downward with a stirruped foot stretched across the body of his dead horse. A leg of the charger extended slantingly upward precisely as stiff as a stake. Around this motionless pair the shells still howled. Hamilton Lindley -- source link