Laps against

Usage examples of washes.

As she washes him, she thinks about how fate contrived to have Sexton Beecher open a map and select a route and drive to Taft, New Hampshire, and walk into a bank and find Honora Willard on the other side of the grille.

As she always does before he goes away, she has a bath and washes her hair and puts on lipstick, so that when he is gone, he will remember her in a pretty dress and not in her apron.

Resentment will begin to well up inside of her so that when she washes the dishes, her nerves will already have begun to sound a taut note just below the silence.

She washes them out and fills them with water and puts them on the table.

On Saturday mornings, she washes the clothes against the metal rungs of the scrub board and puts them through the wringer.

He washes off the worst of the ash and grime, then waters the small flower garden under the porch with the last drops from the bucket.

Then he strips to his drawers and washes as quickly as he can, using the water in the basin for his face.

Then he washes and shaves in ice-cold water, and, as an afterthought, washes the stained shirt he has promised himself he will wash for almost an eight-day.

Another wave of white horror and pain washes over him, and he puts a hand on the ice on the stones of the well ledge.

The sea breeze quickly washes away the last remnants of the Grand Banks's diesel fumes and I breathe in the familiar aromas of salt air and fresh green vegetation that welcome me home.

He washes his face and neck, then sits down on a plastic bench, feeling weak and vulnerable.

A wave of nausea washes over her as he rubs the outline of her nipple with the tip of his index finger.

Dodds holds on, sucking in a desperate breath as a forty-foot wave washes over him, crashing through the lower deck as it snags the last of the lifeboats in its fury.

Now, just a few minutes after six a day before the vernal equinox, all the houses and gravel-roofed factories and diagonal hillside streets are in the shadow that washes deep into the valley of farmland east of the mountain.

Busy one morning with a crescent-shape edger, Harry is caught in a tide of perfume, for behind him the breeze has turned and washes down through a thick sloping bank of acrid lily-of-the-valley leaves in which on that warm night a thousand bells have ripened, the high ones on the stem still the bitter sherbet green of cantaloupe rind.