I'm not any good at this, a little voice inside my head protested.

"We haven't time for the test," the voice above them protested.

A familiar voice, very old and once sacred to me, protested.

I could hear Ernie's voice protesting in tone, though not the words.

A tiny voice of conscience protested that he should stay at his post, help fight the fire.

Only one tiny small voice in her own soul protested that she should not proceed.

Behind it, another younger voice protested, "But we can't kill children."

"I don't mean to wave the dog like a flag," protested the voice.

And yet, in a remote corner of his mind, some small voice protested that her performance was too perfect to be sincere.

"I must disagree," she recalled her own youthful voice protesting.