To the east pulsing fingers of antiaircraft fire were rising into the night sky.

When it was switched on, the fingers stirred and rose, descended again under her control into the brain of its designer.

But when the animal was looking for food, the finger rose in temperature by up to 6C.

The long fingers rose, making a final point.

His finger rose to touch my lips and stop my outburst.

His fingers on her arm, going down and rising.

His magic fingers rose and wiped the tears from her cheeks.

Her fingers rose to smooth away the lines of strain around his mouth.

She saw fingers that must have been hers rise to rake their nails along the back of his right hand.

Her dirty fingers rose, holding a small, greenish bit of material.