What a marvelously active Verbie!
He felt the stirrings in his heart of a love, ponderose, grandiose, glamorous, stupendous!
It was indeed very dominant in his veins just about the time she slammed him back on the cushions and slapped his face for him good.
Her vibrant tones in spite of the inner cries of protest of his desiccated manhood he found adorable as to him then she said:
“You multi-colored, flashy, hieroglyphic son of a spavined grandsire, you stalking, frowning, sneering, swaggering imitation of something that is which amounts to something, you that are nothing whatsoever at all! Rotter, bounder, boob—you blurb, blip, you—don’t you dare to answer me back or I’ll set fire to your whiskers, you flea-bitten—why, what in the world’s happened to ’em? Amut, where’s your whiskers?”
“Over there on the floor, back of you, my Queen,” said the Sheik in strange, shivered accents due to swollen lips.
“I don’t seem to remember pulling them out.”
“O, I’m quite sure you didn’t. You see——”
“Good God,” said Verbeena, “more treachery! Even his whiskers are false!