He never, these days, slung on his flowing, dashing, romantic white cloak without feeling like a whipped cream.
Conjurically he considered himself a storm-tossed palm branch hopelessly missing its dates.
He didn’t have a pillow he felt he had a right to pile on.
He’d been in the habit of sprawling around on his cushions whenever he blamed felt like it. But not so no more! Verbeena could become so exceedingly vituperish and so conspicuously arousing. So different was she, he considered, than varinol.
Hashish had given him some relief but his stock of that was gone and Verbeena hadn’t.
The way she wound Spaghetti around her little finger was utterly farnicaceous. And Hulda was eating out of the hollow of her cute, steel-like fingers.
He could only draw comfort from knowing that he and Verbeena had the cigarette habit intolerably.
“Shades of memory, O, Allah, those days when I was cock of the walk!”
He squirmed bitterly to recall the fact.
He fumbled about among the pillows well-knowing that not a tail feather remained. In plain words, of his masculine dominance he realized he was hirsutically tweezered.