and his voice came from him in a whisper,

He pleaded so much that he lost his voice. His bones began to fill with words.

Mournfully and low the man of God began his eulogy of the dead, and his doleful voice, mingled with the sobbing that it was its purpose to stimulate and sustain, rose and fell, seemed to come and go, like the sound of a sullen sea.

Words deserted him immediately. He could only speak when he was not asked to.

"Hush, now", she said, stroking his head. "Hush. Dilsey got you." But he bellowed slowly, abjectly, without tears; the grave hopeless sound of all voiceless misery under the sound.

He had taken seriously words which were without importance, and it made him very unhappy.

Because he talked so little, his words had a peculiar force; they were not worn dull from constant use.

...he uttered the cry of a creature hurled over an abyss...

A yawning repetitiveness as of a man who knows few words but will not stop talking.

His voice is low and soft, a piece of silk you might keep in a drawer and pull out only on rare occasions, just to feel it between your fingers.

The stillness of the calm is awful. His voice begins to grow strange and portentous. He feels it in him like something swallowed too big for the esophagus. It keeps up a sort of involuntary interior humming in him, like a live beetle. His cranium is a dome full of reverberations. The hollows of his very bones are as whispering galleries. He is afraid to speak loud, lest he be stunned; like the man in the bass drum.

It was as if he had come to mistrust words somehow. Words, and the sentiments words carried.

It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again.

This voice had a quality to it, a <i>monstrous</i> quality, wild and untamed.