But very often during that rainy winter after her marriage Trina would pause in her work, her hands falling idly into her lap, her eyes—­her narrow, pale blue eyes—­growing wide and thoughtful as she gazed, unseeing, out into the rain-washed street.

She loved McTeague now with a blind, unreasoning love that admitted of no doubt or hesitancy.  Indeed, it seemed to her that it was only after her marriage with the dentist that she had really begun to love him.  With the absolute final surrender of herself, the irrevocable, ultimate submission, had come an affection the like of which she had never dreamed in the old B Street days.  But Trina loved her husband, not because she fancied she saw in him any of those noble and generous qualities that inspire affection.  The dentist might or might not possess them, it was all one with Trina.  She loved him because she had given herself to him freely, unreservedly; had merged her individuality into his; she was his, she belonged to him forever and forever.  Nothing that he could do (so she told herself), nothing that she herself could do, could change her in this respect.  McTeague might cease to love her, might leave her, might even die; it would be all the same, she was his.

But it had not been so at first.  During those long, rainy days of the fall, days when Trina was left alone for hours, at that time when the excitement and novelty of the honeymoon were dying down, when the new household was settling into its grooves, she passed through many an hour of misgiving, of doubt, and even of actual regret.

Never would she forget one Sunday afternoon in particular.  She had been married but three weeks.  After dinner she and little Miss Baker had gone for a bit of a walk to take advantage of an hour’s sunshine and to look at some wonderful geraniums in a florist’s window on Sutter Street.  They had been caught in a shower, and on returning to the flat the little dressmaker had insisted on fetching Trina up to her tiny room and brewing her a cup of strong tea, “to take the chill off.”  The two women had chatted over their teacups the better part of the afternoon, then Trina had returned to her rooms.  For nearly three hours McTeague had been out of her thoughts, and as she came through their little suite, singing softly to herself, she suddenly came upon him quite unexpectedly.  Her husband was in the “Dental Parlors,” lying back in his operating chair, fast asleep.  The little stove was crammed with coke, the room was overheated, the air thick and foul with the odors of ether, of coke gas, of stale beer and cheap tobacco.  The dentist sprawled his gigantic limbs over the worn velvet of the operating chair; his coat and vest and shoes were off, and his huge feet, in their thick gray socks, dangled over the edge of the foot-rest; his pipe, fallen from his half-open mouth, had spilled the ashes into his lap; while on the floor, at his side stood the half-empty pitcher of steam beer.  His head had rolled limply upon one shoulder, his face was red with sleep, and from his open mouth came a terrific sound of snoring.