The Dean.
I am walking once again in the old streets at Oxford, avoiding the shops where I owe my youthful bills. Bills!
[He pounds away vigorously with the rolling-pin.
Blore.
[To himself.] Where’s the stuff I got a month ago to destroy the hold black retriever that fell hill?
The Dean.
Bills!
Blore.
The dog died—the poison’s in my pantry—it couldn’t have got used for cooking purposes.
The Dean.