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Show Jeffries, Section 3, Page 85 "You-all STOP!" Their eyes narrowed, and they froze in menacing and dramatic poses. "Hashasheen. And we don't want any trouble." "Dervish! Peri!" Dorian Clayton edged up behind her as she railed at her murderous servants, her emerging eloquence his last best hope, each carefully weighted invective a notice to the Grand Pooh-bah himself that she was emerging as a stern Portia. "We'll have his life," they argued. "Daisy, let me handle them. "Very well, assassins. You caught me with my hand in the cookie jar. But be reasonable enough to allow me time to compose myself--" "He's baseborn!" "--Some last moments for my prayers." "Pray, you heathen, prattle to your false gods; you'll be going to meet Kujata soon enough." "Well it's been nice. Now if you'll allow me that orange crate in the closet, there, the shoebox, my charts..." "Watch it-he's going for his heater!" "Gentlemen--too many B-movies. "There. My papers. To be put in order, you see. |
