Suave, genteel.

Another shabby street.

The shabby compartment remained vacant.

The shabby flat is vacant.

Apparently that shabby flat is vacant.

He is mixed up with something shabby.

The hotel room where we stayed was shabby.

So, that's going to look pretty shabby now.

200 miles in 56 minutes Not too shabby.

It was a poky, little, shabby genteel place, where four lines of dingy two storied brick houses looked out into a small railed in enclosure, where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of faded

The room was empty except for a shabby bed.

Your friend appears to be quite a genteel pretty sort of girl, Mrs Collins.

My car looks shabby in comparison with his new one.

Its east of shabby ville and south of capital city.

She saw the shabby little house, but she didn't hurry by.

In the end, we ended up eating at that shabby restaurant.

Shabby, rundown. I should have demanded new curtains a long while ago.

Am I mad? Cuss began abruptly, as he entered the shabby little study.

I wouldn't be surprised if some of hers was looking a bit shabby.

The small house had come to look shabby, though it was just as good as ever underneath.

The driver looked twice at such a shabby fare, but I jumped in before he could object.

The driver looked twice at such a shabby fare, but I jumped in before he could object.

He was a short, stout person in an extraordinarily shabby top hat, and he appeared to be very much out of breath.

The English clergyman was poor and he had five children nearly all the same age and they wore shabby clothes and were always quarreling and snatching toys from each other.

Nevertheless, you're going to go into this building, you're going to walk down this hall, you're going to go through the door, and you're going to find yourself in a very shabby apartment.

And my biggest worry is that we're creating a world where we're going to have glittering technologies embedded in kind of a shabby society and supported by an economy that generates inequality instead of opportunity.

(adams, off) now the fear is no longer vague. the terror isn't formless. it has a form. he was beckoning me. that thin, gray man in the cheap, shabby suit. he was beckoning me. he wanted me to start to cross.

When the dusk was gathering and Iping was just beginning to peep timorously forth again upon the shattered wreckage of its Bank Holiday, a short, thick set man in a shabby silk hat was marching painfully through the twilight behind the beechwoods on the road to Bramblehurst.

Within are shabby shelves, ranged round with old decanters, bottles, flasks and in those jaws of swift destruction, like another cursed Jonah (by which name indeed they called him), bustles a little withered old man, who, for their money, dearly sells the sailors deliriums and death.