suspiration literary

This came about in due time of suspiration and respiration.

Suddenly, his voice dropped to a whisper like a suspiration of anguish.

For the monarch suddenly sank back into his chair, and a long, loud suspiration of relief came from him.

Mario gave a long heavy suspiration that shook Ebery's paunch.

With a mighty yell, my after suspiration burst that overcrowded coffin into fragments!

Betty sighed, a long slow suspiration.

He stabbed his finger to a suspiration of smoke that rose from the lip of the cone and trickled up into the sky. '

He let go a suspiration then, and it all came out "Freidal said to him: What is it that you fear most, Stahlig?"

With brief suspiration he reassumed the candle, reascended the stairs, reapproached the door of the front room, hallfloor, and reentered.

The defenders and some attackers, ignited by the blazing suspiration, had been turned into shrieking fireballs or were already dead in smouldering heaps.

With a suspiration of relief that seemed to lift a horrid incubus from his bosom, he decided that his first conjecture had been correct.

Infinitely reassuring was the unresting, unhurried suspiration of the air-pumps, driving the man-made trade winds of this tiny planet.

Their means of assimilating the noxious miasmas of their home are far more complex than thy simple means of suspiration.

A few tresses of her hair had escaped from beneath the Muslin which confined the rest, and fell carelessly over her bosom, as it heaved with slow and regular suspiration.

She lay there, sleek and curved as a fish or a gull, so close that he could hear the rise and fall of her breath faintly echoing the suspiration of the sea.

No longer was he aware of the crowded hall: the high-flaring lights, the wine-flushed faces, had become a moonbright parterre of drowsily nodding blossoms, and the voices of the courtiers were no more than a faint suspiration of wind amid cypress and jasmine.

'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn black, Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath, No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, Nor the dejected havior of the visage, Together with all forms, moods, shapes of grief, 'That can denote me truly.