The only noises were the occasional footfalls of
a policeman and the persistent calling of ducks and geese in the closed
market across the way. The street was asleep.
When it is night and dark, and one is awake and alone, one's thoughts
take the color of the surroundings; become gloomy, sombre, and very
dismal. All at once an idea came to Trina, a dark, terrible idea; worse,
even, than the idea of McTeague's death.
"Oh, no," she cried. "Oh, no. It isn't true. But suppose--suppose."
She left her post and hurried back to the house.
"No, no," she was saying under her breath, "it isn't possible.
Maybe he's even come home already by another way. But
suppose--suppose--suppose."
She ran up the stairs, opened the door of the room, and paused, out of
breath. The room was dark and empty. With cold, trembling fingers she
lighted the lamp, and, turning about, looked at her trunk. The lock was
burst.
"No, no, no," cried Trina, "it's not true; it's not true." She dropped
on her knees before the trunk, and tossed back the lid, and plunged
her hands down into the corner underneath her wedding dress, where she
always kept the savings. The brass match-safe and the chamois-skin bag
were there.
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