The room was open to the west, the direction of the breeze.

His voice never rose above the sound of the breeze in leaves.

One touch of breeze from the open window told him just that.

But it had been sort of a warm breeze after all.

Inside, the two found that the source of the breeze was a small opening.

A month passed like the breath of the breeze, and it was good.

He said, in a voice like the whisper of the breeze.

The air was cool and dry, free of any movement or breeze.

The air was still, without even a hint of a breeze.

Movement gave the impression of a breeze, though nothing moved at all.