It is this dread that makes him so emaciatedhesitate when he speaks, and bend his back and shoulders into a constant cringe.

By this time Appetite is at the table, And with a lowly cringe presents the wine To his old master Gustus; now he takes it, And drinks, perchance, to Lingua; she craftily Kisses the cup, but lets not down a drop, And gives it to the rest: 'tis sweet, they'll swallow it:

She saw the wretched Tawny cringe lower and cover his face.