Her five thousand dollars invested in
Uncle Oelbermann's business was a glittering, splendid dream which came
to her almost every hour of the day as a solace and a compensation for
all her unhappiness.
At times, when she knew that McTeague was far from home, she would lock
her door, open her trunk, and pile all her little hoard on her table. By
now it was four hundred and seven dollars and fifty cents. Trina
would play with this money by the hour, piling it, and repiling it, or
gathering it all into one heap, and drawing back to the farthest corner
of the room to note the effect, her head on one side. She polished the
gold pieces with a mixture of soap and ashes until they shone, wiping
them carefully on her apron. Or, again, she would draw the heap lovingly
toward her and bury her face in it, delighted at the smell of it and the
feel of the smooth, cool metal on her cheeks. She even put the smaller
gold pieces in her mouth, and jingled them there. She loved her money
with an intensity that she could hardly express. She would plunge her
small fingers into the pile with little murmurs of affection, her long,
narrow eyes half closed and shining, her breath coming in long sighs.
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