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How to use His voice in a sentence

Looking for sentences with "His voice"? Here are some examples.

Sentence Examples

His voice droned and buzzed in Sean's ears like a hovering bee, more so today than any other day.
His voice was weak, but his countenance was seraphic, his long white hair reaching to his shoulders.
His voice had a metallic quality as if the modulation was slightly out of sequence.
His voice echoed in the apartment and Melanie felt as though the whole room shook.
His voice was shaking with fury as he looked down at Larek, who was sitting in the mud trying to wipe the blood off his face.
His voice dripped with ironic sarcasm, as he spared a moment to glance at her.
His voice was inaudible, but an announcer read an Arabic translation of his words.
His voice moaned and wailed, expressing the deepest sorrows of a condemned sinner.
His voice was well modulated, and his speech slow and strongly articulated.
His voice was monotonous, expressionless and cold, like he'd only just mastered the art of speaking and was none too skilled at it.
His voice reminds you of the long awaited monsoon showers caressing the parched earth.
His voice sing-songed as dripping wax flowed over capsules containing various types of dangerous apparatuses.
His voice was unaccented, yet contained a deep, exotic tenor that rang with a sophisticated firmness.
His voice isn't quite the precision instrument it once was, and it's often multi-tracked.
His voice dropped to a mumble, his grip on my wrist loosened and he stopped struggling so much.
His voice trailed off into an absorbed mumble as he tried to jot everything down.
His voice always seems highly strung, like he's about to crack, yet there's also something cold and unemotional to it.
His voice is strong and steady and captures all the emotion laced in his music.
His voice was deep and throaty, resonating in his chest as though he had just woken from a very long sleep.
His voice wheezed ever so slightly, as if he had shouted a lot when he was younger.
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His voice echoed in unison with the harsh winds whipping snow in their faces.
His voice was huskier than it should have been and Birdie could feel his chest heaving against her bosom.
His voice is so soothing in fact that it feels a bit like a smooth ocean wave carelessly caressing the shore.
His voice remains clarion-ragged, unsullied, and untouched by trends or whims.
His voice broke and he put his face in his hands and sobbed uncontrollably.
His voice broke as he fought back emotions to tell an Old Bailey jury of the boy's last words.
His voice was low, despite the soundproof barrier between them and the driver.
His voice was rough with a southern accent only noticeable from certain words and his slight drawl.
His voice was essentially lyrical, but he could raise it to nobly heroic heights.
His voice once bouncy and vibrant was shattered and only left as melancholic gutterals that could barely be deciphered as speech.
His voice was a vibrant, almost magnetic bass, and seemed to reverberate within the very rock wall of the cavern.
His voice changes volume, seems to scrape up against the bottom of itself with vocal fry one minute, then grinds in a higher gear the next.
His voice is also surprisingly cultured, far more so in many ways than Jagger's flattened vowels.
His voice was hard and harsh, strict and stern, sad and happy all at the same time.
His voice sounded dead even to himself and he wondered why he was still talking.
His voice lacks the distinctive cadence for which he would become known, but there's no denying the presence he brings to the part.
His voice was calculatedly calm, betrayed by occasional outbursts of frustration.
His voice was edged with pain, and I saw that he was struggling to keep his mask of self-assurance on.
His voice is heavy with sarcasm, and it strikes me like a punch, hard and fast.
His voice was heavy with booze, yet even in his inebriated state, he managed to speak clearly.
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His voice was hoarse and his neck hurt as he tried to look over at his father.
His voice was cheerful and he knelt down so that he was kind of near her eye level.
His voice had suddenly taken on a childlike quality as he began talking quick and excitedly.
His voice may not be as pure as it once was, nor soar quite so magnificently, but it is still wonderfully hypnotic.
His voice was like ice, and his eyes glared at them with their unsettling insensity.
His voice had ice in it, but he didn't even look back, he just kept on going.
His voice was raw and I noticed his usually clear eyes were red rimmed and clouded.
His voice is even more gummy and inexpressive than last time, and he really sounds drugged down into a stupor a lot of the time.
His voice came out cold and rigid yet fiery with untamed anger etched within it.
His voice grates on me and I cringe the whole time. He's a hateful sexist man.
His voice was so calm, so cool and collected, I almost felt close to swooning.
His voice is a reedy hush, like a jet of water issuing from a punctured pipe.
His voice drifted off as he floated over to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, cabinets, and the pantry.
His voice gave out on the final syllable, his distressed croak fading abruptly into an almost inaudible squeak.
His voice was anxious as he eased closer to her and tightened his hold on her hand.
His voice was dark and angry, and filled with an everlasting promise of revenge.
His voice and vocal projection are so vivid that whilst he is singing he makes you forget all other performers of the role.
His voice was harsh, demanding and Katharine could not stop herself from letting a low growl emit from her throat.
His voice grumbled slightly, and mixed with the sounds that she could not longer hear, it sounded perfect.
His voice was a low bass, rumbling and grumbling in his throat, and it came out slow and steady like molasses.
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His voice cracked with emotion and he paused for a drink of water when he started describing the events leading to Mrs Thompson's death.
His voice still carried the thick, Hungarian accent, once incomprehensible, now familiar though still mysterious.
His voice noticeably quavered as he recalled one of the most important moments in his career.
His voice softens and opens up, threading a tremulous quaver through its easy melody.
His voice was completely at odds with the content of what he had just said, light to the point of jocularity.
His voice lifts the soul and spirit inspiring our party of schoolchildren to take an excitingly fresh tilt at the English countryside.
His voice has a limited range, but is used well, serving the slow burn of these songs far more effectively than a straightforward rap.
His voice was but a whisper and my recovering ears just registered the word.
His voice was flat, void of any emotion, which led Anna to wonder if he felt anything at all about his father.
His voice was still slightly flat though Elizabeth could tell he really did like Sam.
His voice was cool and Andreus raised the lash again threateningly, but was ordered to lower it.
His voice was wobbly when he spoke, and he was barely able to form the words on his tongue.
His voice was strident with alarm, and his beautiful eyes were dark with fear.
His voice is almost too soft to hear, his English embellished by traces of French and Wolof, the native language of most Senegalese.
His voice is friendly and trusting and there's a sense of fun and wonderment about him.
His voice was strong and the way he worded things made it sound like poetry.
His voice never raised above a moderate level, yet his approach worked like a charm.
His voice is smooth and without a trace of a regional accent and speaking to him on the phone it's almost as if I heard it somewhere before.
His voice was clear and pronounced, as though he were used to reading such things aloud.
His voice was dripping with what can only be described as a yinzer's indignation at having to deal with a nincompoop.
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His voice had gone soft, analeptic even, in an effort to make me release the iron-like grip I held.
His voice was naturally deep and resonant, a good, powerful, commanding voice.
His voice became flippant, a distinct change from his previous, conspiratorial tone.
His voice had lost its light laughter, and the love of the buildings he had lived with all his life showed through.
His voice rises in pitch as he says it, turning the last syllable of his question into something akin to a squeak.
His voice surged for a moment but it was scratchy, his throat was very dry.
His voice retains its evenness in all registers, and he cleanly articulates Vivaldi's most difficult runs and fioriture.
His voice was low and loud, like a volcanic eruption sounds from inside the volcano.
His voice was low-pitched, but the wind carried his words back to the patio.
His voice was low-pitched, self-assured, altogether a man's voice, the sort of man who was master of his own affairs.
His voice tails off, his attention clearly drawn to the television blaring out the lunchtime news in the background.
His voice sounded more than just confused, it was tired and irritated too, mad at the world.
His voice became faint to her, and her vision blurry, but as she could no longer make him out or hear his voice she couldn't tell what he said.
His voice had all of it's previous teasing sexuality gone, only remained the voice of a dangerous man.
His voice was just changing from its higher tones of youth to the deeper ones of his manhood.
His voice has a calmness to it that is almost chilling, and it is medium range for a male tenor.
His voice was wonderful, his tale marvelous, and his choice of words eloquent and perfect.
His voice was thick, unsteady, as he struggled against the frantic gasps for air that came with bitter, cried tears.
His voice is almost baritonal, and it lacks Italianate warmth, but this is beautiful singing nevertheless.
His voice dropped to a seductive whisper and Dawn felt it all the way to her toes.
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His voice was throaty and deep when he made that statement, and I felt my stomach clench.
His voice was drowned by the shattering roar of a jet plane passing over the chimney pot.
His voice was sweet and melodic, yet horrible in a way that you wanted to cover your ears so you couldn't hear it.
His voice broke slightly as he said this and he cleared his throat.
His voice had shock in it but it was still with malice in his voice.
His voice grows richly guttural as he intones each angel's name.
His voice teetered on a high pitch between stability and insanity.
His voice was dripping venom, and had an unliving, doomed quality to it.
His voice sounded unnatural and stilted, but I barely noticed as I thought about making out with Dmitri against the rough bark of the tree in the forest.
His voice is vibrant and robust throughout the entire tenor range.
His voice cracks with emotion as he tries to retain his cool composure.
His voice was exhilarating, thrilling beyond any description.
His voice was rather gruff but there was kindness in his blue eyes.
His voice carries some of the Bavarian lilt of Werner Herzog, and he looks slightly like Daniel Day-Lewis when he laughs.
His voice was gruff, but with a certain intellectual refinement to it.
His voice sounded shaky, like he was choking back tears, but once he caught his bearings, he pressed his palm softly to my hair and bent to kiss my cheek.
His voice was formal yet kind with a hint of nerves, for nervous he was.
His voice wasn't weak, but it lacked its trademark strength and energy.
His voice used to be sonorous, melodious, and relaxing to her most of the time, but lately, he nearly always sounded impatient, stressed, or angry.
His voice was slightly metallic, air whistling through a trachea-ring.
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His voice was crisp and business-like, as usual, when he wasn't sneering.
His voice had struck a conversational tone that grated on her nerves.
His voice was a whisper, the words forced out in one breath.
His voice is high-pitched, yet wields the power to cut right through a room of telegram operators.
His voice was a raspy clarion, hoarse from a lifetime of belting it out.
His voice dripped in sarcasm, but there was a light feeling to it.
His voice is quiet, melodic, and often tinged with an undercurrent of mirth.
His voice was slowly lowering itself back to normal speaking voice.
His voice enraptured the crowd, who were compelled to sing along.
His voice had a tremor in it too, words passing out over palsied lips.
His voice was so low and calm, but it shot a tremor of terror through her.
His voice was coarse and scratchy, filled with malice and hunger.
His voice was laced with desperation as he blacked out, his arm dropping.
His voice was absolutely sincere, with no mockery or sarcasm even hinted.
His voice broke piteously, but Bahzell only gazed down with flinty eyes, and something inside the landlord shriveled under their dreadful promise.
His voice fell into a decrescendo at the climax of his argument.
His voice was musical and strong, which he managed in such a manner as, one while, to make soft impressions on the heart, and fetch tears from the eyes.
His voice sounded horrible, as if he'd swallowed a butcher knife.
His voice fades to nothing, signalling the end of the conversation.
His voice is a harsh, nasal, confused, emphatic bleat, clamping down on certain words and rolling tricky internal rhymes around in his mouth until they come out all broken.
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His voice shaking with ersatz emotion, he recalled how three senior boys surrounded him in such an intimidating manner that he has never forgotten it.
His voice was pitched low, so that only Doyle and I heard him.
His voice sounded dull and dry to him, without depth or meaning anymore.
His voice is rich and silky and seems to contain the wisdom of the world.
His voice is mildly nasal, mildly ironic, and in general, mild.
His voice was shaking slightly as he spoke and his lower lip trembled.
His voice is now shriller, the sobbing more pathetic, and the words begin to garble as he swallows water.
His voice screamed inside of her head louder and more pitchy than before.
His voice was as low as the growl animals used to warn each other off.
His voice rises and falls like a cork float on a fishing line.
His voice would morph from a melodic baritone to a deep, guttural snarl, grinding notes to a pulp.
His voice was smooth and oily, just like the rest of his appearance.
His voice had been likened to an oboe, the Elizabethan hautboy.
His voice carried to her easily and Alice was on her feet immediately.
His voice first attracted my attention, his countenance fixed it, and his manners attached me to him for ever.
His voice had a genuine pathos now, and his large brown hands perceptibly trembled.
His voice is good, his enunciation distinct, and his delivery free from any unpleasant peculiarity or mannerism.
His voice is adenoidal and grating, his manner unnatural and studied.
His voice has always been one of moderation encompassing a humanistic vision transcending the boundaries of nationality or other petty divisions.
His voice has a gentle, vaguely toffish tone but it's based on a deep conviction he's right.
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His voice was hoarse and his unkempt head only added to its grewsome quality.
His voice wavered when the reporter brought up the controversial topic.
His voice sounded unpleasantly close to the crouchers within the cubicle.

Examples from Classical Literature

His voice is soft, and resembles more the chaunting of a little bird, than the cry of a quadruped.
His voice was so deep and raucous that it seemed to jar the soles of her feet.
His voice sounds so reverberant because it issues from the gloomy cistern in which he is held a captive.
His voice was low, but it rang as hollowly as though he were from another world.
His voice seemed weak and high-pitched in comparison to the Hunter's baritone.
His voice became yet blander, as, walking onwards towards the lake, he poured into Guatimozin's ear his wishes and instructions.
His voice was a drawl, very deliberate, very quiet, rather soft and pleasant.
His voice was squeaky and petulant, like that of a child who is suddenly forbidden a toy.
His voice was baritone, resonant and sweet, a power stirring in it like a drumbeat felt in the marrow.
His voice was quiet as he murmured, softly, implacably, before he was gone.
His voice came from the surge of battle, like the cheer of a sailor who recks not for the tempest.
His voice had a mumbling quality and I noticed the strangeness in his eyes.
His voice lifted one notch higher than the undertone which welled about him.
His voice was keyed to the stern, official tone he knew so well how to assume.
His voice was vibrant with a deep earnestness that made him as solemn as a priest.
When out of the castle himself he perceived, His voice in a ditty again he upheaved.
His voice was high pitched and his whole manner suggested that of a eunuch.
His voice was still going on, expansively, brilliantly, juggling his subject.
His voice but not his words came to the sergeant in a rolling, thundery mutter.
His voice wasn't as pleasant as tody's nor the giant's, but what he said was all right.
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His voice was low, in an awing, confident contrast with the headlong emphasis of his movements.
His voice sounded odd and tired, and there was an ache of bafflement in his young eyes.
His voice was as odd as his appearance, it was high-pitched and quavering.
His voice was sombre, because he had a correct sentiment of the situation.
His voice is sweet and sonorous, his eyes are bright with intellect.
His voice was thick with sorriness, and he could hardly get the words out.
His voice was quite cross, and ikey could have laughed aloud.
His voice rose very shrill and mad against the regular deep soughing of the swell coiling heavily about the outer face of the sea-wall.
His voice suggested sympathetic reproof but at the same time indicated that a few harrowing details would not be unacceptable.
His voice was lubricated with the sweet-oil of willing servitude.
His voice had the heavy, throaty rasp characteristic of the Martian.
His voice was low, toneless, and singularly devoid of emotion.
His voice seemed to come from just behind his teeth, a toothy voice.
His voice sank into the tenderest inflections, his smile expressed a thoughtful, fatherly admiration, whenever he spoke to Laura or to me.
His voice dropped, and he seemed to drop too, into some abysm of thought.
His voice was like the yelp of an arquebus in the beginning of a battle.
His voice was rather feeble, but clear, articulate, and musical.
His voice had suddenly become cold, and he signed to his boatman.
His voice was so sympathetic and he read so interestingly that I wished he had chosen one of my favourite chapters in the Book of Kings.
His voice seemed to him rough and brutal, but he did not mean it so.
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His voice was drowned by the clamor that went up from every side.
His voice trailed off into silence, and cleek smiled kindly.
His voice became soft and reminiscent, and with a sigh of contentment he launched into a long rambling talk, speaking as one lost in a dream.
His voice had a fractious tone, as if he combated an unseen tyrant.
His voice died away as Terry went down the companion ladder.
His voice was almost a scream, shrill and crackling with excitement.
His voice was husky from much speaking, but the great auditorium was as still as death, and every one heard him.
His voice had changed, until the deepness of it was terrifying.
His voice had become weighty with authority and measured with doom.
His voice is sweeter than honey from the locust, and goes into the ear thrilling like the song of a wren.
His voice was hollow, etiolated like a flower grown in darkness.
His voice had directed the attention of the whole town to Peter Goldthwaite's window, and to the dusty scarecrow which appeared at it.
His voice was choked and his pale face was glistening with perspiration.
His voice lifted until it was its shriller, more natural falsetto.
His voice was thin, but it kept that line of hands high above their heads.
His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way to answering naturally.
His voice was low and threatening, but his words were woefully distinct.
His voice broke badly in the yodel and he was jeered by a rude audience.
His voice was breaking, but still it pealed over the sea of heads.
His voice sounded thin and futile after the other's, and to Jurgis it seemed a profanation.
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His voice took unexpected turns and inflections, almost as if two men were speaking.
His voice was heavy and his deafness was reflected in the strained tone.
His voice was matter-of-course, but his look said she was magnificent.
His voice was as thrilling as a trombone, and his words did not matter.
His voice was drowned in a wild burst of mewing and squeaking.
His voice was modulated to an unaccustomed mildness as he spoke.
His voice was a low tenor, with just a touch of midwestern twang.
His voice had changed so much, he spoke with such curtness and even with such contempt, that Mrs.
His voice sounded strangely soft from one so large and rugged.
His voice faltered, as he began the question, and he left it unfinished.
His voice at once announced that he was a Southerner, and from his fine stature, I thought he must be one of those tall mountaineers from the Alleganian Ridge in Virginia.
His voice ended in a scream that seemed to be one of terror.
His voice was as smooth and suave as his countenance, as he advanced with a plump little hand extended, murmuring his regret for having missed us at his first visit.
His voice trembled, and he spoke so fast, and with such stammerings, that he might have been taken for a foreigner, though the purest Russian blood ran in his veins.
His voice was the softest thing imaginable, and he was himself so gentle and quiet that he slipped into the life of the town without attracting the least bit of attention.
His voice was no longer audible in the burst of rage which now broke into the air, as if the wood, instead of containing so small a band, was filled with the nation.

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