If his hands had been cut off, he might have seemed some sodden victim of a drug habit, but the hands saved him.
They seemed to belong to another body--beautiful, swift, and strong, and grafted by some foul mischance onto this rotten hulk.

Very white they were, and long, with a nervous uneasiness in every motion, continually hovering around the cards with little touches which were almost caresses.
"It ain't a game," said the man who had first pointed out the group to Pierre, "it's just a slaughter.

Cochrane's too far gone to see straight.

Look at that deal now! A kid could see that he's crooking the cards!" It was blackjack, and Hurley, as usual, was dealing.

He dealt with one hand, flipping the cards out with a snap of the wrist, the fingers working rapidly over the pack.