Prof. Bellgrove : Damn it, boy! Don't you even know how to spell your own name?
[speaking to himself, after his colleagues have suggested that Irma Prunesquallor desires him]
Prof. Bellgrove : Well, tonight's the night. Will I or won't I... Irma Prunesquallor? Statement made in the staffroom: She's passionate about me. Consider. One: It's poppycock. Two: My damned staff are damned interferers. Call themselves teachers! They lie to add zest to the party. Three: I haven't questioned their lie, so they don't know that I've seen through it. Four: So far, so good. Five: How do I turn the tables against these spoilers of all that is young and wonderful and, let's face it, lamblike? Six: What's wrong with Irma Prunesquallor, anyway? Noses must be some shape or other, or, as that damned idiot Shred would say, they wouldn't exist at all. Seven: No bosoms to speak of, true... but then, what are bosoms, weighed against... hm, quite. Eight: I'm lonely. Oh, Bellgrove, such scouring, not to say moving, honesty! Nine: What a catch I am for any woman. Ten: Oh God, please make her mine!