Only one thing remained. On the wall
between the windows, in its oval glass frame, preserved by some unknown
and fearful process, a melancholy relic of a vanished happiness, unsold,
neglected, and forgotten, a thing that nobody wanted, hung Trina's
wedding bouquet.
CHAPTER 15
Then the grind began. It would have been easier for the McTeagues to
have faced their misfortunes had they befallen them immediately after
their marriage, when their love for each other was fresh and fine, and
when they could have found a certain happiness in helping each other and
sharing each other's privations. Trina, no doubt, loved her husband
more than ever, in the sense that she felt she belonged to him. But
McTeague's affection for his wife was dwindling a little every day--HAD
been dwindling for a long time, in fact. He had become used to her by
now. She was part of the order of the things with which he found himself
surrounded. He saw nothing extraordinary about her; it was no longer a
pleasure for him to kiss her and take her in his arms; she was merely
his wife. He did not dislike her; he did not love her. She was his wife,
that was all. But he sadly missed and regretted all those little animal
comforts which in the old prosperous life Trina had managed to find for
him.
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