one, each heaved
a sigh of unspeakable relief. Softly they pushed to their doors, leaving
open a space of half a dozen inches. Old Grannis went back to his
binding. Miss Baker brewed a cup of tea to quiet her nerves. Each tried
to regain their composure, but in vain. Old Grannis's fingers trembled
so that he pricked them with his needle. Miss Baker dropped her spoon
twice. Their nervousness would not wear off. They were perturbed, upset.
In a word, the afternoon was spoiled.

Maria went on about the flat from room to room. She had already paid
Marcus Schouler a visit early that morning before he had gone out.
Marcus had sworn at her, excitedly vociferating; "No, by damn! No,
he hadn't a thing for her; he hadn't, for a fact. It was a positive
persecution. Every day his privacy was invaded. He would complain to the
landlady, he would. He'd move out of the place." In the end he had given
Maria seven empty whiskey flasks, an iron grate, and ten cents--the
latter because he said she wore her hair like a girl he used to know.

After coming from Miss Baker's room Maria knocked at McTeague's door.
The dentist was lying on the bed-lounge in his stocking feet, doing
nothing apparently, gazing up at the ceiling, lost in thought.

Since he had spoken to Trina Sieppe, asking her so abruptly to marry
him, McTeague had passed a week of torment. For him there was no going
back. It was Trina now, and none other. It was all one with him that his
best friend, Marcus, might be in love with the same girl. He must
have Trina in spite of everything; he would have her even in spite of
herself. He did not stop to reflect about the matter; he followed his
desire blindly, recklessly, furious and raging at every obstacle. And
she had cried "No, no!" back at him; he could not forget that. She, so
small and pale and delicate, had held him at bay, who was so huge, so
immensely strong.

Besides that, all the charm of their intimacy was gone. After that
unhappy sitting, Trina was no longer frank and straight-forward. Now she
was circumspect, reserved, distant. He could no longer open his mouth;
words failed him. At one sitting in particular they had said but
good-day and good-by to each other. He felt that he was clumsy and
ungainly. He told himself that she despised him.

But the memory of her was with him constantly. Night after night he
lay broad awake thinking of Trina, wondering about her, racked with the
infinite desire of her. His head burn