With its waltzing piano intro, the cowbell works over-time to rein in the myriad hisses, whirs, and reverberating noises. |
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As the dust on the rim cuts, diamond dust whirs away from the cutting blade and continually replenishes rim dust. |
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He demonstrates, and inside the package, the round head whirs like a tiny buzz saw. |
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Its coals fade to black shortly after it starts, but then a scratchy calliope whirs to life, taking it out on a wistful, black and white note. |
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If something black and white whirs by, it's probably a pigeon guillemot, a cousin of the puffin that nests in cliffside cavities. |
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The projector in the middle of the domed theatre clicks and whirs into action, showing a stunning display of the night skies. |
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Then the cyber-surgery unit, guided by a telesurgeon miles away, whirs into action. |
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Stab the gas pedal, and the whirs and hisses while the exhaust system lets out a few backfires. |
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Inside, the air conditioning whirs like a jet high above, jungle vines twist around massive pillars standing sentry over a wide Incan staircase. |
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The editor made the change, stripping the voices of the soldiers from the opening, but keeping blips and whirs of radio distortion. |
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Without the beeps and whirs of a cellphone, you can use your ears to detect crickets, mice, or other vermin in your home. |
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As village life whirs busily around her in the midst of jute harvest, Ms. Begum sits next to her family's new rainwater tank and talks about her illness. |
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The radio ceases its prattling, the air purifier whirs to a stop. |
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Franglais won't get Boris far Who knows what dark ambition whirs beneath the flaxen dome of the Mayor of London, but it seems the United States Presidency is right out. |
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The building, which was completed a year ago, is a modernist composition in glass and metal filled with the ambient hums and whirs and whooshes of brain-scanning equipment, much of which was still being assembled. |
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The Reaper has a nine-hundred-horsepower engine, and its thrum, combined with the tinnier whirs of the Predators, created a racket like a NASCAR sprint. |
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It's a book that clatters and whirs like a Rube Goldberg device, spitting out, on every page, perfectly formed pellets of intellection, rude humor, grief and longing. |
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