Once night and dead quiet have fallen on the place, long after the crowds of visitors have gone home and the staff have locked up and gone home themselves, the ones with the best hearing—the foxes and owls—gather round, to listen. They are struggling to make out what George Washington is uttering, while turning over, inside his carved, marble sarcophagus. Sounds like “onial,” “jorann,” “sedral,” and again, “onial,” “jorann,” “sedral.” (more…)