[CHAPTER VII]
What Spaghetti was wishing for Verbeena was wondering concerning. Whereabouts now was this bold devil, Amut? And when would he be home? To be sure, Spaghetti had said, she sort of remembered, that the Sheik would be home for dinner and that he ate at eight. But he might come in any old time and surprise her. For, cogently considered, wouldn’t that be just like him? That he was a nasty feller, how could she doubt it? Of the Machiavellian character of the black-whiskered, tow-headed mazib hadn’t she right then sufficient evidence to swing any jury?
“Boo-hoo, Boo-hoo!” sobbed Verbeena entirely in the feminine gender.
But six or seven cigarettes, the knowledge of the hatpin stick beneath the left breast of her Norfolk jacket with the right hand fully informed about it and something else that she had up her sleeve (I can’t tell you yet—no, really, honest, I can’t, for it wouldn’t be fair to Verbeena—might give her away in a critical moment) something else that she had up her sleeve reassured her mightily.
And if I could only tell you what she was thinking about doing just then! “Durn it!” your heart would surely go out to the cute bantam! Gaw, bless her!
Remembering as well that Britains never shall be slaves!
And that, moreover, if you are not that kind of a girl and are truly indignant why then, my dear, your ship of Fate gathers no moral barnacles.
Although, of course, in the matter of just what kind of a girl Verbeena was, if any, a palpable ambiguousness veers to the verge of anguish.