Rose: Have you the horn?
Satiny Bosom: Bloowho?
The Fondling Hand: Better get this job over quick.
Slops: Hold that fellow with the bad trousers. Hold him now.
Empties: Empty vessels make most noise. He feels so lonely.
Popped Corks: He’s suffering the agony of the damned.
Eyes: Looks a fright in the day.
Maidenhair: Sigh. Lord we are weary.
Bronze: True men like you men.
Faintgold in Deepseashadow: I feel so lonely.
Mermaid: Everything is dear if you don’t want it. That’s what a good siren is. Make you buy what she wants to sell.
Tuning Fork: All is lost now.
Beer Pull: In cups of rocks it slops.
Shell: [With vehement breath of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks] Seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos.
Passepartout: You have made a mistake of one day.
Lozgechkin: Let his epitaph be written.
Sardine Sandwich: It is the little rift within the lute that by and by will make the music mute, and ever widening slowly silence all.
(Glad I avoided.)