Along with the jewelry, the box (which polishes up quite nicely, thank you) includes a page torn from a book. In a neat, old fashioned hand, the following is written:
He will not tell me his name, but says he comes from the sea, and he tells me about it. It is limitless and ever-changing, he says, and I envy him, for my life is small and chained to routine. I have jewels and books; I have a gilded tower and a walled garden; I have servants and more space than most. It is a golden cage. I curse John daily for imprisoning me like this, but he is not even around to hear: the warden cannot be bothered to stay in his own prison. May he rot. May he suffer as I have, trapped and thought mad.
I believe the nurses suspect something. They seem to watch me more closely now, and I hear them whispering to each other. They are talking about me. I know they are, and I must be more careful in the future.
The last thing you seek is at the manmade shell.