It was a
lamentable sight. Trina looked longingly at the ten broad pieces in her
hand. Then suddenly all her intuitive desire of saving, her instinct
of hoarding, her love of money for the money's sake, rose strong within
her.
"No, no, no," she said. "I can't do it. It may be mean, but I can't help
it. It's stronger than I." She returned the money to the bag and locked
it and the brass match-box in her trunk, turning the key with a long
breath of satisfaction.
She was a little troubled, however, as she went back into the
sitting-room and took up her work.
"I didn't use to be so stingy," she told herself. "Since I won in the
lottery I've become a regular little miser. It's growing on me, but
never mind, it's a good fault, and, anyhow, I can't help it."
CHAPTER 11
On that particular morning the McTeagues had risen a half hour earlier
than usual and taken a hurried breakfast in the kitchen on the deal
table with its oilcloth cover. Trina was house-cleaning that week and
had a presentiment of a hard day's work ahead of her, while McTeague
remembered a seven o'clock appointment with a little German shoemaker.
At about eight o'clock, when the dentist had been in his office for over
an hour, Trina descended upon the bedroom, a towel about her head
and the roller-sweeper in her hand.
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