Syme, indeed, was one of those men who are open to all the more nameless psychological influences in a degree a little dangerous to mental health.

Utterly devoid of fear in physical dangers, he was a great deal too sensitive to the smell of spiritual evil.

Twice already that night little unmeaning things had peeped out at him almost pruriently, and given him a sense of drawing nearer and nearer to the head-quarters of hell.

And this sense became overpowering as he drew nearer to the great President.
The form it took was a childish and yet hateful fancy.

As he walked across the inner room towards the balcony, the large face of Sunday grew larger and larger; and Syme was gripped with a fear that when he was quite close the face would be too big to be possible, and that he would scream aloud.