Certainly the burly wretch wasn’t showing any false smoke-stacks.
She could see he meant business.
And such a business!
Verbeena steadied herself on a cigarette.
“Frapjous ass!” she said yet well-knowing that her old boyish nonchalance had gone fazizz. “Who are you?”
“I am——”
Ah, the organ tones of his voice! A little gritty on account of the desert sands perhaps, but deep, thrilling, throbbing. It tickled the very roots of her clubbed curls.
Verbeena vibrated.
“I am the Sheik Amut Ben Butler!”
The name conveyed nothing to her.