[She goes out. The Dean sinks into a chair and clasps his forehead.
Blore.
A dear, ’igh-sperited lady. [Leaning over The Dean.] Aren’t you well, sir?
The Dean.
Serpent!
Blore.
Meanin’ me, sir?
The Dean
Lock up; I’ll speak to you in the morning. Lock up.
[Blore goes into the Library, turns out the lamp there, and disappears.