And all this efflorescence of sacred splendour was created, little by little, by her deft fingers.
At length he had hit on making a whistle—the only thing his clumsy fingers had ever been deft at.
Are not my arms as strong, my hands as deft, my wits as keen, and my soul as true?
I am afraid that, deft as he was, he would have lost in a fair race.
It looked odd to see Constance ...