The book was closed on his forefinger
, and before he turned he was thrilling to the first new impression, which was not of the girl, but of her brother's words.
But Pollyanna found it, and ran her shaking forefinger
down through the C's to "Chilton.
cried Miss Twinkleton, with a chastely-rallying forefinger
Guess I can fix that for you," he remarked, running his forefinger
down one of the pages.
I have here some of your reports," said the bureaucrat in an unexpectedly soft and weary voice, and pressing the tip of his forefinger on the papers with force.
His wit consisted in discovering droll connections between incongruous ideas; and when talking in that strain he sat well forward of his seat, with his left hand raised, as if exhibiting his funny demonstrations between the thumb and forefinger, while his round and clean-shaven face wore an expression of merry perplexity.
On repeating this last word Mr Vladimir laid a long white forefinger on the edge of the desk.
Miss, miss,' whispered Dennis, beckoning to her with his forefinger, 'come here--I won't hurt you.
Suiting the action to the word, he thrust her rather suddenly and prematurely into a chair, and designing to reassure her by a little harmless jocularity, such as is adapted to please and fascinate the sex, converted his right forefinger into an ideal bradawl or gimlet, and made as though he would screw the same into her side-- whereat Miss Miggs shrieked again, and evinced symptoms of faintness.
The scene was a plain, bare, monotonous vault of a school-room, and the speaker's square forefinger
emphasized his observations by underscoring every sentence with a line on the schoolmaster's sleeve.
Here, in dry clothes and scented linen, with sleeked hair, a great ring on each forefinger and a massive show of watch-chain, Mr Blandois waiting for his dinner, lolling on a window-seat with his knees drawn up, looked (for all the difference in the setting of the jewel) fearfully and wonderfully like a certain Monsieur Rigaud who had once so waited for his breakfast, lying on the stone ledge of the iron grating of a cell in a villainous dungeon at Marseilles.
Mr Blandois shook his right forefinger towards the sick room, and his left forefinger towards the portrait, and then, putting his arms akimbo and striding his legs wide apart, stood smiling down at Mr Flintwinch with the advancing nose and the retreating moustache.