He calls the knaves, Jacks, this boy! . . . And what coarse hands he has! And what thick boots!

A boy's story is the best that is ever told.

It was no fancy of mine about his hands, I observed; for he frequently ground the palms against each other as if to squeeze them dry and warm, besides often wiping them, in a stealthy way, on his pocket-handkerchief

Uriah, with his long hands slowly twining over one another, made a ghastly writhe from the waist upwards.

When the coarse cloth she saw, with many a stain, / Soiled by rude hands, who cut and came again.

Bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense,
But good men starve for want of impudence.