(She raises the rag, in momentary revolt, as though she were about to throw it at the skull. But she stops sullenly as she mechanically resumes her work.)
Ye dirty heathen ... me a-scrubbin’....
(As she finds a hairpin and sticks it in her hair, Prof. Pohl enters, carrying a small plaster cast in which is embedded the outlines of a fossil.
Prof. Pohl, the curator, is a short, round-shouldered man nearing sixty. He is absorbed in his scientific interest, devoid of conscious humor and fundamentally inclined to be impatient with anything that has not been dead for at least several million years.)
Professor
Good afternoon, Sarah.
Sarah
(Mumbling half to herself resentfully, as he walks over where she has just mopped)
And I was just after a-moppin’ up that place.