On
occasions they sat like this for an hour or so, "philandering," Trina
cuddling herself down upon McTeague's enormous body, rubbing her cheek
against the grain of his unshaven chin, kissing the bald spot on the top
of his head, or putting her fingers into his ears and eyes. At times,
a brusque access of passion would seize upon her, and, with a nervous
little sigh, she would clasp his thick red neck in both her small arms
and whisper in his ear:
"Do you love me, Mac, dear? Love me BIG, BIG? Sure, do you love me as
much as you did when we were married?"
Puzzled, McTeague would answer: "Well, you know it, don't you, Trina?"
"But I want you to SAY so; say so always and always."
"Well, I do, of course I do."
"Say it, then."
"Well, then, I love you."
"But you don't say it of your own accord."
"Well, what--what--what--I don't understand," stammered the dentist,
bewildered.
There was a knock on the door. Confused and embarrassed, as if they were
not married, Trina scrambled off McTeague's lap, hastening to light the
lamp, whispering, "Put on your coat, Mac, and smooth your hair," and
making gestures for him to put the beer bottles out of sight. She opened
the door and uttered an exclamation.
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