他手一挥，屋子里便安静了下来。
我听说他手很紧。
把它放在每一个经他手的生物身上。
Put it somewhere on every creature that comes from his hands.
他手抖着，从袋子里拿出了他那本新的字谜书。
His hand trembles when he takes his new book of crossword puzzles from his bag.
他手所行的，是诚实公平。他的训词都是确实的。
The works of his hands are verity and judgment; all his commandments are sure.
他手所行的，是诚实公平。 他的训词都是确实的。
The works of his hands are faithful and just; all his precepts are trustworthy.
并且一只敏捷的蜜蜂叮了他手一口。他的手肿胀起来。
你摸，爸爸，你摸他手有多烫- - - - - -你看他是不是在发烧？
Feel, Papa, feel how hot his hands are-do you suppose he has fever?
所以他手伸入去，到那毯子内，移开了那天蓝色的袍子，暴露出这老人已无生息的胸膛。
So he reached down, slid back the blanket, and parted the azure robe, exposing the old man's lifeless chest.
他们在筵席上弹琴，鼓瑟，击鼓，吹笛，饮酒，却不顾念耶和华的作为，也不留心他手所作的。
They have harps and lyres at their banquets, tambourines and flutes and wine, but they have no regard for the deeds of the Lord, no respect for the work of his hands.
凡经他手的作品，他都留下美妙的感受的印记——一种非凡的个人风格；一种他自己的气味、声音、色彩。
Upon whatever he had come in contact with, he had left a beautiful record of the experience — a sort of ethereal signature; a scent, a sound, a color that was his own.
我不能忍受跟他呆在一个房间里······我相信他的手上沾满了我儿子的鲜血，也占满了其他命丧他手的男男女女的鲜血。
I can't bear to be in the same room as him... I believe he's got the blood of my son and all of the other men and women who died out there on his hands.
尽管那并不是他的诗句，那些文字的组合并不出自他手。但他们却是如此的熟悉，一半就像是在自己脑子里一样。她一定在哪里听过这些？
Yet those were not his lines. The words were not created by him. They were somehow familiar. Half remembered. Surely she had heard them before?
我拉着他的手。
他的手很灵巧。
他的手汗津津的。
她牢牢抓住他的手不放。
他的手从胳膊上截断了。
这位老者离开，举起他的手致意。
我抓住他的手捏了捏。
他将手从她的肩膀上拿开。
眼镜蛇将毒牙咬进他的手。
他的手被热情地、紧紧地握住了。
他的手因关节炎都扭曲了。
这位男士伸出了他的手：“我是查克。”
我们用绳子把他的手绑在一起。
他拉着迪肯的手领他进了那幢房子。
他的手一软，刀子当啷一声掉到地上。
他的手一软，刀子当啷一声掉到地上。
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