And well he might stare. Digory and Polly stared too. There was no doubt that the Witch had got over her faintness； and now that one saw her in our own world， with ordinary things around her， she fairly took one‘s breath away. In Charn she had been alarming enough： in London， she was terrifying. For one thing， they had not realized till now how very big she was. “Hardly human” was what Digory thought when he looked at her； and he may have been right， for some say there is giantish blood in the royal family of Charn. But even her height was nothing comparedwith her beauty， her fierceness， and her wildness. She looked ten times more alive than most of the people one meets in London. Uncle Andrew was bowing and rubbing his hands and looking， to tell the truth， extremely frightened. He seemed a little shrimp of a creature beside the Witch. And yet， as Polly said afterwards， there was a sort of likeness between her face and his， something in the expression. It was the look that all wicked Magicians have， the “Mark” which Jadis had said she could not find in Digory’s face. One good thing about seeing the two together was that you would never again be afraid of Uncle Andrew， any more than you‘d be afraid of a worm after you had met a rattlesnake or afraid of a cow after you had met a mad bull.
