1 I could hear the tears in his voice.
2 He stopped, with a sort of choke in his voice.
3 For it was the voice of my dear Madam Mina that I heard.
4 I could hear his voice in the hall, asking the way to the nearest telegraph office.
5 There was a far-away look in her eyes, and her voice had a sad dreaminess which was new to me.
6 Somewhere high overhead, probably on the tower, I heard the voice of the Count calling in his harsh, metallic whisper.
7 The voice came from the sofa across the room, and its tones brought relief and joy to my heart, for they were those of Quincey Morris.
8 Of bell or knocker there was no sign; through these frowning walls and dark window openings it was not likely that my voice could penetrate.
9 His face was set, and high duty seemed to shine through it; the sight of it gave us courage so that our voices seemed to ring through the little vault.
10 How he came there, I know not, but I heard his voice raised in a tone of imperious command, and looking towards the sound, saw him stand in the roadway.
11 I was dazed and stupid with pain and terror and weakness, but the sound of the nightingale seemed like the voice of my dead mother come back to comfort me.
12 The leader of the gypsies, a splendid-looking fellow who sat his horse like a centaur, waved them back, and in a fierce voice gave to his companions some word to proceed.
13 Sweet it was in one sense, honey-sweet, and sent the same tingling through the nerves as her voice, but with a bitter underlying the sweet, a bitter offensiveness, as one smells in blood.
14 Here, as we are rushing along through the darkness, with the cold from the river seeming to rise up and strike us; with all the mysterious voices of the night around us, it all comes home.
15 His voice was weaker, so I moistened his lips with the brandy again, and he continued; but it seemed as though his memory had gone on working in the interval for his story was further advanced.
16 As I waited I heard in the distance a gipsy song sung by merry voices coming closer, and through their song the rolling of heavy wheels and the cracking of whips; the Szgany and the Slovaks of whom the Count had spoken were coming.
17 He swear much, and he red face and loud of voice, but he good fellow all the same; and when Quincey give him something from his pocket which crackle as he roll it up, and put it in a so small bag which he have hid deep in his clothing, he still better fellow and humble servant to us.
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