A sudden vague terror seized her; she left McTeague and ran
down the hall and caught her mother around the neck.
"I don't WANT you to go," she whispered in her mother's ear, sobbing.
"Oh, mamma, I--I'm 'fraid."
"Ach, Trina, you preak my heart. Don't gry, poor leetle girl." She
rocked Trina in her arms as though she were a child again. "Poor leetle
scairt girl, don' gry--soh--soh--soh, dere's nuttun to pe 'fraid oaf.
Dere, go to your hoasban'. Listen, popper's galling again; go den;
goot-by."
She loosened Trina's arms and started down the stairs. Trina leaned over
the banisters, straining her eyes after her mother.
"What is ut, Trina?"
"Oh, good-by, good-by."
"Gome, gome, we miss der drain."
"Mamma, oh, mamma!"
"What is ut, Trina?"
"Good-by."
"Goot-py, leetle daughter."
"Good-by, good-by, good-by."
The street door closed. The silence was profound.
For another moment Trina stood leaning over the banisters, looking
down into the empty stairway. It was dark. There was nobody. They--her
father, her mother, the children--had left her, left her alone. She
faced about toward the rooms--faced her husband, faced her new home, the
new life that was to begin now.
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