Tilting a little down the hill, as our house does, a breeze draws through the hall all the time, upslanting. A feather dropped near the front door will rise and brush along the ceiling, slanting backward, until it reaches the down-turning current at the back door: so with voices. As they enter the hall, they sound as if they were speaking out of the air about your head.
William Faulkner, As I Lay Dying, 1930