They were
sounds occasioned by the artist in prying open the oblong box, by
means of a chisel and mallet- the latter being apparently muffled,
or deadened, by some soft woollen or cotton substance in which its
head was enveloped.
In this manner I fancied I could distinguish the precise moment when
he fairly disengaged the lid- also, that I could determine when he
removed it altogether, and when he deposited it upon the lower berth
in his room; this latter point I knew, for example, by certain
slight taps which the lid made in striking against the wooden edges of
the berth, as he endeavored to lay it down very gently- there being no
room for it on the floor. After this there was a dead stillness, and I
heard nothing more, upon either occasion, until nearly daybreak;
unless, perhaps, I may mention a low sobbing, or murmuring sound, so
very much suppressed as to be nearly inaudible- if, indeed, the
whole of this latter noise were not rather produced by my own
imagination. I say it seemed to resemble sobbing or sighing- but, of
course, it could not have been either. I rather think it was a ringing
in my own ears. Mr. Wyatt, no doubt, according to custom, was merely
giving the rein to one of his hobbies- indulging in one of his fits of
artistic enthusiasm.
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