Put it there. [the player declines] I understand perfectly: a man's gotta guard his handshake. Gives away a lot of a person's soul. And I'm not talking about that palm-reading shit. You shake a man's hand, you get a sense of his worth. His past and present.
—Ellis Hill, The Secret World
A sweaty Warrant Officer comes aboard. She doesn't offer you her hand, but that's perhaps a courtesy rather than a snub.
—"Within the Jaw behind Wayland's Teeth" storylet, Fallen London
ENA: A-haha, YOU look like a fellow entrepreneur. Let me shake your hand and collect your genius germs.
Coral Glasses: Ah... Sorry, handshakes weren't part of the job description.
Coral Glasses: Ah... Sorry, handshakes weren't part of the job description.
“That’s Mr. Ambassador, Magnan,” Pennyfool corrected sharply. “Kindly step aside. You’re interfering with a delicate negotiation.” The little man marched past Retief without a glance, halted before Shilth, offering a wide smile and a limp hand. The Groaci studied the latter, turned it over gingerly and examined the back, then dropped it.
“Liver spots,” he said. “How unesthetic.”
“Liver spots,” he said. “How unesthetic.”