"That's Vanovitch," said he. "He's a plumber round on Sutter Street.
He's got an appointment with me to have a bicuspid pulled. I got to go
back to work." He rose.
"But you can't," cried Trina, the back of her hand upon her lips, her
eyes brimming. "Mac, don't you see? Can't you understand? You've got to
stop. Oh, it's dreadful! Listen." She hurried around the table to him
and caught his arm in both her hands.
"Huh?" growled McTeague, looking at her with a puzzled frown.
"They'll arrest you. You'll go to prison. You can't work--can't work any
more. We're ruined."
Vanovitch was pounding on the door of the sitting-room.
"He'll be gone in a minute," exclaimed McTeague.
"Well, let him go. Tell him to go; tell him to come again."
"Why, he's got an APPOINTMENT with me," exclaimed McTeague, his hand
upon the door.
Trina caught him back. "But, Mac, you ain't a dentist any longer; you
ain't a doctor. You haven't the right to work. You never went to a
dental college."
"Well, suppose I never went to a college, ain't I a dentist just the
same? Listen, he's pounding there again. No, I'm going, sure."
"Well, of course, go," said Trina, with sudden reaction.
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