Twas a hand White, delicate, dimpled, warm, languid, and bland. The hand of a woman is often, in youth, Somewhat rough, somewhat red, somewhat graceless in truth; Does its beauty refine, as its pulses grow calm, Or as sorrow has crossed the life line in the palm? Owen Meredith (Lord Lytton)Lucile. Pt. I. Canto III. St. 18.
O, that her hand, In whose comparison all whites are ink, Writing their own reproach, to whose soft seizure The cygnets down is harsh and spirit of sense Hard as the palm of ploughman. Troilus and Cressida. Act I. Sc. 1. L. 55.