"I'll tell you what we'll do, Mac," she said to her husband, "you send
half and I'll send half; we'll send twenty-five dollars altogether.
Twelve and a half apiece. That's an idea. How will that do?"
"Sure, sure," McTeague had answered, giving her the money. Trina sent
McTeague's twelve dollars, but never sent the twelve that was to be her
share. One day the dentist happened to ask her about it.
"You sent that twenty-five to your mother, didn't you?" said he.
"Oh, long ago," answered Trina, without thinking.
In fact, Trina never allowed herself to think very much of this affair.
And, in fact, another matter soon came to engross her attention.
One Sunday evening Trina and her husband were in their sitting-room
together. It was dark, but the lamp had not been lit. McTeague had
brought up some bottles of beer from the "Wein Stube" on the ground
floor, where the branch post-office used to be. But they had not
opened the beer. It was a warm evening in summer. Trina was sitting on
McTeague's lap in the bay window, and had looped back the Nottingham
curtains so the two could look out into the darkened street and watch
the moon coming up over the glass roof of the huge public baths.
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