Try as she would,
Trina could never quite eradicate from their rooms a certain faint
and indefinable odor, particularly offensive to her. The smell of the
photographer's chemicals persisted in spite of all Trina could do to
combat it. She burnt pastilles and Chinese punk, and even, as now,
coffee on a shovel, all to no purpose. Indeed, the only drawback to
their delightful home was the general unpleasant smell that pervaded
it--a smell that arose partly from the photographer's chemicals, partly
from the cooking in the little kitchen, and partly from the ether and
creosote of the dentist's "Parlors."
As McTeague came in to lunch on this occasion, he found the table
already laid, a red cloth figured with white flowers was spread, and as
he took his seat his wife put down the shovel on a chair and brought
in the stewed codfish and the pot of chocolate. As he tucked his napkin
into his enormous collar, McTeague looked vaguely about the room,
rolling his eyes.
During the three years of their married life the McTeagues had made but
few additions to their furniture, Trina declaring that they could not
afford it. The sitting-room could boast of but three new ornaments. Over
the melodeon hung their marriage certificate in a black frame.
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