McTeague
caught her wrists in one palm and pulled them down. Trina's pale face
was streaming with tears; her long, narrow blue eyes were swimming; her
adorable little chin upraised and quivering.
"Let's hear what you got to say," exclaimed McTeague.
"Nothing, nothing," said Trina, between her sobs.
"Then stop that noise. Stop it, do you hear me? Stop it." He threw up
his open hand threateningly. "STOP!" he exclaimed.
Trina looked at him fearfully, half blinded with weeping. Her husband's
thick mane of yellow hair was disordered and rumpled upon his great
square-cut head; his big red ears were redder than ever; his face was
purple; the thick eyebrows were knotted over the small, twinkling eyes;
the heavy yellow mustache, that smelt of alcohol, drooped over the
massive, protruding chin, salient, like that of the carnivora; the veins
were swollen and throbbing on his thick red neck; while over her head
Trina saw his upraised palm, callused, enormous.
"Stop!" he exclaimed. And Trina, watching fearfully, saw the palm
suddenly contract into a fist, a fist that was hard as a wooden mallet,
the fist of the old-time car-boy. And then her ancient terror of him,
the intuitive fear of the male, leaped to life again.
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