It was uncanny.

It seemed as if some mysterious freemasonic affinity existed between her and the evil beast.
During her drive hither she had entered my own atmosphere.

She had been the handsome, unconventional woman of the world.

Now she seemed as remote from me as the witches in "Macbeth." If I had seen her dashing Paris hat rise up into a point and her umbrella turn into a broomstick, and herself into one of the buxom carlines of "Tam O'Shanter," I should not have been surprised.

The feats of the mild pussies which the dwarf began forthwith to exhibit provoked in me but a polite counterfeit of enthusiasm.