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

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

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

And you Stood at your Door with your Hands on my Waist and you Kissed me Like you Meant it.

No one is useless in the world who lightens the burden of it for anyone else.

It's over, and can't be helped, and that's one consolation, as they always says in Turkey, when they cuts the wrong man's head off