His face had grown thin, his hair was slightly worn at the crown and temples, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

Yet, for all these signs of dissipation, he was still a remarkably handsome man.

Though not so robust as when I last saw him, his form was yet elegant.

In the old days we had called him Adonis, and Donie had clung to him long after the Cambridge time.
"Now," said he, when we had lighted our pipes, "I'll tell you why I'm going to the dogs.

I've got to tell it to some one or go daft; and I can't say that I'm not daft as it is." "It is a woman," said I, after reflection, "who causes a man to drink, to lose all ambition." "It is." "It is a woman," I went on, holding the amber stem of my pipe before the light which gleamed golden through the transparent gum, "who causes a man to pull up stakes and prospect for new claims, to leave the new country for the old." "It is a woman indeed," he replied.