My whole nature sickened at his aspect and talk.

And yet I was dreadfully afraid of him.

I felt as a man might who wakes up to find himself alone with some peculiarly disgusting Christmas-story kind of ghost.

Moreover I was quite sure that he meant us ill, fearful and imminent ill.

Suddenly he spoke again: "Who is that little yellow one," he said, "that old one with a face like a skull," and he pointed to Hans, who had kept as much out of sight as possible behind Mavovo, "that wizened, snub-nosed one who might be a child of my brother the god, if ever he had a child?
And why, being so small, does he need so large a staff ?" Here he pointed again to Hans's big bamboo stick.