"Do you want Mrs. Pringle gone forever, her reputation tarnished? She'd never get another job if she's charged with theft. She'll end up with no money, no house, stuffing old newspapers into her boots to keep her feet warm in the winter!" Robyn's voice rose. She sniffed.
I rolled my eyes. "Robyn, get a grip! No one's talking about a crime, here."
"How did you know? Maybe someone took that book and tried to sell it," Robyn retorted.
"And how would a person sell something like that, Robyn? A garage sale?" I shook my head.
The songbird sings from his syrinx, at the bottom of his trachea, where the two bronchi become one. It is a hollow space framed by reverberant cartilage and smooth muscle tympanum. There are no chords to split and differentiate the breath. The tongue does not direct the sound, nor are there teeth for sibilance, nor labia for nuance.
