He is cravenly, horribly afraid.
Bowman is afraid even of new waiters and of waiters he never expects to
see again. Surely, it must be safe not to tip a waiter one never
expected to see again. "But no," said Bowman, "I should feel his
contemptuous gaze in the marrow of my backbone as I walked out. I could
not keep from shaking, and I should rush from that place in agony, with
the man's derisive laughter ringing in my ears."
The only one of the company who was not afraid of something concrete,
something tangible, was Williams. Now Williams is notoriously,
hopelessly shy; and when he took up the subject where Bowman had left
it, he poured out his soul with all the fervour and abandon of which
only the shy are capable. Williams was afraid of his own past. It was
not a hideously criminal one, for his life had been that of a bookworm
and recluse. But out of that past Williams would conjure up the
slightest incident--a trifling breach of manners, a mere word out of
place, a moment in which he had lost control of his emotions, and the
memory of it would put him into a cold sweat of horror and shame.
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