In these fields of Mr. Tulkinghorn's inhabiting, where the shepherds play on Chancery pipes that have no stop, and keep their sheep in the fold by hook and by crook until they have shorn them exceeding close, every noise is merged, this moonlight night, into a distant ringing hum, as if the city were a vast glass, vibrating.

In Mr. Tulkinghorn's room, every noise is merged, this moonlit night, into a distant ringing hum, as if the city were a vast glass, vibrating.
