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.

“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.

The people about the house and the clerks at the provision stores often remarked that Trina’s fingertips were swollen and the nails purple as though they had been shut in a door.  Indeed, this was the explanation she gave.  The fact of the matter was that McTeague, when he had been drinking, used to bite them, crunching and grinding them with his immense teeth, always ingenious enough to remember which were the sorest.  Sometimes he extorted money from her by this means, but as often as not he did it for his own satisfaction.

And in some strange, inexplicable way this brutality made Trina all the more affectionate; aroused in her a morbid, unwholesome love of submission, a strange, unnatural pleasure in yielding, in surrendering herself to the will of an irresistible, virile power.