Psht

"Psht!" said the old gentleman to himself, as he lay back in his easy-chair, revolving all these things in his mind — "how many of 'em have I seen? There was Miss Lavrock — charmin' voice she had, bright and shrill, like a bird's pipe […]

His shadowed eyes prowled the young dancers. "These," he said. "Psht." He spat. "They'll never know." He downed his beer […]

Psht! he says, with a shove in my ribs and an angry sidelong look. Why, of course: here I am, making all this racket when there's this oral test going on in front of the blackboard […]

"Psht! cat! You'll burn yourself," said the tailor.