The time was past when a drink would make him feel good.

His unhealthy soft fat of earlier years had melted away and he was beginning to wither and turn a leaden grey.

He seemed to have a greenish tint like a corpse putrefying in a pond.

He no longer had a taste for food, not even the most beautifully prepared stew.

His stomach would turn and his decayed teeth refuse to touch it.
A pint a day was his daily ration, the only nourishment he could digest.
When he awoke in the mornings he sat coughing and spitting up bile for at least a quarter of an hour.