1 Two fingers of his right hand were inkstained.
2 He raised a finger to the man in the white coat.
3 He pressed his fingers against his eyelids again.
4 Sometimes, indeed, you could put your finger on a definite lie.
5 He had held it between his fingers for as long as thirty seconds.
6 She gave the tips of his fingers a quick squeeze that seemed to invite not desire but affection.
7 He cleaned his fingers as best he could in the cold water from the tap and went back into the other room.
8 He shut his eyes and pressed his fingers against them, trying to squeeze out the vision that kept recurring.
9 As he passed through the lavatory door he transferred it to his pocket and felt it with the tips of his fingers.
10 He explored the long fingers, the shapely nails, the work-hardened palm with its row of callouses, the smooth flesh under the wrist.
11 He told her the story of Jones, Aaronson, and Rutherford and the momentous slip of paper which he had once held between his fingers.
12 Syme had produced a strip of paper on which there was a long column of words, and was studying it with an ink-pencil between his fingers.
13 He would finger himself here and there, trying to make sure that it was not an illusion that his muscles were growing rounder and his skin tauter.
14 With the tip of his finger he picked up an identifiable grain of whitish dust and deposited it on the corner of the cover, where it was bound to be shaken off if the book was moved.
15 It was curious that the fact of having held it in his fingers seemed to him to make a difference even now, when the photograph itself, as well as the event it recorded, was only memory.
16 He stood watching while the instructress raised her arms above her head and--one could not say gracefully, but with remarkable neatness and efficiency--bent over and tucked the first joint of her fingers under her toes.
17 With a sort of faded enthusiasm he would finger this scrap of rubbish or that--a china bottle-stopper, the painted lid of a broken snuffbox, a pinchbeck locket containing a strand of some long-dead baby's hair--never asking that Winston should buy it, merely that he should admire it.
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