Surely vice is degrading in more ways than one.

To the professor, Sir Hastings, with his handsome, dissipated face, stands out, tawdry, hideous, vulgar--why, every word he says is tinged with coarseness; and yet, what a pretty boy he used to be, with his soft, sunny hair and laughing eyes---- "You will help me, eh ?" persists Sir Hastings, with his little dry chronic cough, that seems to shake his whole frame.
"Impossible," says the professor, simply, coldly.
"_No ?_ Why ?" The professor looks at him (a penetrating glance), but says nothing.
"Oh! damn it all!" says his brother, his brow darkening.

"You had _better_, you know, if you want the old name kept above water much longer." "You mean---- ?" says the professor, turning a grave face to his.
"Nothing but what is honorable.

I tell you I mean to turn over a new leaf.

'Pon my soul, I mean _that_.