Moon looked down at her hands, at white fists.

The man advanced, his white fists gripping the iron stand.

He extended a pair of big white hairy fists.

That chance was slim enough, without the interference of more angry children, their fat white fists hot with guns.

The white fist moved from view beyond the glass panel.

Every so often his hands had curled into bloodless white fists.

Ryan's right hand compressed into a tight, white fist.

He found that his hands had turned into tight white fists around his reins.

When she returned, she held an iron bar in her white fist.

But even so, he refused to use the linen handkerchief clutched in his white fist.