Harry wound his hand tightly into the mane of the nearest Thestral, placed a foot on a stump nearby and scrambled clumsily on to the horse's silken back.
Silent, slow, and solemn; bowing over still further his chronically broken back, he toiled away, as if toil were life itself, and the heavy beating of his hammer the heavy beating of his heart.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione, flat on its back, scraped against the ceiling as it dived toward the passage opening, while the pursuing goblins hurled daggers that glanced off its flanks.
This hussar, with a grave face and without a smile or a change in the expression of his fixed eyes, watched the regimental commander's back and mimicked his every movement.
The father, a slender, young-old man, slightly stooped from years of labor, was resting on the sofa and half-listening to a program of waltz music on the radio.
The Parsee, who was an accomplished elephant driver, covered his back with a sort of saddle–cloth, and attached to each of his flanks some curiously uncomfortable howdahs.