With that he threw off his magnificent, flowing white cloak and he hopped her.
He had her in a mad, palpitant chancery but Verbeena put up some great infighting. She gave it to him good—right and left into the kish-kish (ringside and Yiddish for breadbasket) and now and again sought the point of the chin with a left uppercut that had hitherto always served her well. It had beautifully in that fight with the policeman.
But in all the many other bouts in which Verbeena had been engaged, kissing was strictly foul. It was sometimes permitted at the ringsides, she had observed, at the end of a fight, but never in the mix-ups.
Unsportsmanlike brute!
For as she let go a wild, desperate uppercut it shot harmlessly past an adroitly lowered chin and the next instant he had smacked her full upon the mouth.
A terrific, scorching smack!
It knocked Verbeena wuffy.
She could almost hear a referee, a misty, intangible wraith-like referee, giving her the full count, for the hot mouth pressed against hers was superlatively soporific, nicotinically, garliciously narcotic.
“First fall!” grinned the Sheik Amut Ben Butler the while he chucked the giddy girl through some heavy curtains upon a stack of soft yellow, pink, red (dark and light) gold, silver green and mauve cushions.
Yet Verbeena, remember, had verve!