"No," she answered, looking at the tall, dignified man, into whose soul the irons of fear and slavery had burnt so deep.

His hand brushed the iron, and he felt a tingling, but the iron didn't burn.

It took both charcoal and green wood, and the bellows, and half the time the iron burned rather than melted.

In such a fine powdered form, iron can burn, due to its increased surface area.

He drew his hand back as if an iron had burned it.

She tugged at it, refusing to let go, even though the hot iron was burning her fingers.

The iron had burned him, head and body.

Touching iron didn't usually burn him.

It was as if the red-hot iron were burning into him right now!

And hot iron, most likely, had burned it there.