The wind was still banging away, but there was an inner calm that was at variance with the agitation I had felt below.

Outdoors the wind was banging a loose shutter or downspout.

And the winds banged between the crevices on top of the mountains and underneath the trees.

Afterwards they slept, though the night was hotter and the wind was banging the letter-boxes in the streets.

The bell was not to be heard, but the wind banged on the roof, and again there came a tinkle in the darkness.

The wind banged against it, and seeped around the edges of it, but the door held.

Outside, the wind kept up its steady whine, and somewhere far away a door was banging, like a sound heard in a dream.

The wind banged him against the wall.

About fifty feet behind the house was a sturdy-looking red barn, one of its doors open and the wind banging it against the wall.

Embracing her 6-year-old daughter, Sarah, she described herself huddled in a basement with her children as the wind howled and banged above them.