Using both hands, he tore her robe outward and down; tore the flimsy lace-edged fabric beneath at the same time.

My robe was tearing, black cloth ripping.

They saw her there, her robe torn, blood on her face, the axe lifted from its rest.

"I'm tired of running and having my face scratched and my robe torn, all on account of those stupid warriors."

They yanked down hard, and the woman fell; then they yanked up, and her robe tore, but she landed gently.

The robe tore away from his shoulders then.

My robe was torn, drenched with cold sweat.

The robes she had chosen were light but strong, and would not tear easily.

Battered and bloodied, his robes torn.

And now she came running out of the night, her nun's robes torn and tattered and soaked in her own blood.