4:51 pm

Stretto

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.)