Ulyth started so violently that the bottle of Indian ink overturned and spread itself out in three streams.
The sorrow in his voice broke down the energy with which Fanny had hitherto restrained her tears, and they began to flow in streams
down her beautiful face as she sank into an armchair.
Let us recall the blessings by the way- the streams
in the desert, the pillar of fire that led us in the night.