"Ah, the dear money, the dear money," she would whisper. "I love you so!
All mine, every penny of it. No one shall ever, ever get you. How I've
worked for you! How I've slaved and saved for you! And I'm going to get
more; I'm going to get more, more, more; a little every day."
She was still looking for cheaper quarters. Whenever she could spare a
moment from her work, she would put on her hat and range up and down the
entire neighborhood from Sutter to Sacramento Streets, going into
all the alleys and bystreets, her head in the air, looking for the
"Rooms-to-let" sign. But she was in despair. All the cheaper tenements
were occupied. She could find no room more reasonable than the one she
and the dentist now occupied.
As time went on, McTeague's idleness became habitual. He drank no more
whiskey than at first, but his dislike for Trina increased with every
day of their poverty, with every day of Trina's persistent stinginess.
At times--fortunately rare he was more than ever brutal to her. He would
box her ears or hit her a great blow with the back of a hair-brush,
or even with his closed fist. His old-time affection for his "little
woman," unable to stand the test of privation, had lapsed by degrees,
and what little of it was left was changed, distorted, and made
monstrous by the alcohol.
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