It had no blur of emotion.

It had resonance.

The hammer that struck the bell of his voice was the hammer of memory, and if it was plaintive it also was clear, and it was also vibrant with the silver of lost hopes.
M.Manotel humoured him, while the bird still sang.

"Four dollars--five dollars: do I hear no more than five dollars ?--going once, going twice, going three times--gone!" he cried, for no one had made a further bid; and indeed M.Manotel would not have heard another voice than Jean Jacques' if it had been as loud as the falls of the Saguenay.

He was a kind of poet in his way, was M.Manotel.He had been married four times, and he would be married again if he had the chance; also he wrote verses for tombstones in the churchyard at St.Saviour's, and couplets for fetes and weddings.
He handed the cage to Jean Jacques, who put it down on the ground at his feet, and in an instant had handed up five dollars for one of the idols of his own altar.