None of his spells worked, however, and he was unable to prevent the pot hopping after him out of the kitchen, and then following him up to bed, clanging and banging loudly on every wooden stair.
Again, again–and it was not the ear that heard the pulsing rhythm, it was the midriff; the wail and clang of those recurring harmonies haunted, not the mind, but the yearning bowels of compassion.
When the last loaf was in, the Baker shut the oven door with a clang so loud and merry that the children all began to laugh and shout and dance around the brown tent.
The shouts and cries, the groans of the wounded and the dying, the clang of blows struck in the fierceness of deadly hate, made a noise which it was hideous to hear.