He got to his knees and turned around, shirt torn open, chest bleeding, leg screaming.

She looked appraisingly down at him a moment, then calmly tore open his shirt.

His hand went to his breast, tore open the bloodstained shirt.

As he did, he heard his shirt tear across his back.

Old, and shabbily made to begin with, the shirt tore cleanly down the seams.

He ripped at the lining in the coat, tore the shirt to the waist.

Then 10 minutes later he struggled back in, his tie's gone, his shirts torn.

The buttons popped and the shirt tore out of her waistband.

He rolled up the victim's sweater, tore open the shirt beneath.

Sean cried out as the shirt tore and his child's flesh was cut.