Sitting on the edge of the bunk she began to slide her stockings—Ballito Laceline—over neat calves and miraculous thighs. She looked down at Boysie who was far away, deep in unconscious Freudian exercises. The cabin walls shuddered to the steady thud of the ship’s great single reduction geared turbines. “Wake up, Boysie,” whispered Miss Priscilla Braddock-Fairchild, bending over him and putting her lips close to his ear. “Wake up. I’ve got to get back to my own cabin. It’s six o’clock.” Boysie snuggled deeper into the pillow and groaned. “Boysie, will you wake up!” He opened one eye. The half-vision, bed’s-eye-view of Miss Braddock-Fairchild thus provided caused him to snap up his other eyelid and shift his position with a sensual squirm. “Har-Har!” gurgled Boysie Oakes lasciviously. “Gather round, me fine buckos.” “Oh no you don’t.
