“Mac,” she cried to him, as he came in, speaking with horrid rapidity, cringing and holding out her hands, “Mac, listen. Wait a minute—look here—listen here. It wasn't my fault. I'll give you some money. You can come back. I'll do ANYTHING you want. Won't you just LISTEN to me? Oh, don't! I'll scream. I can't help it, you know. The people will hear.”
McTeague came towards her slowly, his immense feet dragging and grinding on the floor; his enormous fists, hard as wooden mallets, swinging at his sides. Trina backed from him to the corner of the room, cowering before him, holding her elbow crooked in front of her face, watching him with fearful intentness, ready to dodge.
“I want that money,” he said, pausing in front of her.
“What money?” cried Trina.
“I want that money. You got it—that five thousand dollars. I want every nickel of it! You understand?”
“I haven't it. It isn't here. Uncle Oelbermann's got it.”
“That's a lie. He told me that you came and got it. You've had it long enough; now I want it. Do you hear?”
“Mac, I can't give you that money. I—I WON'T give it to you,” Trina cried, with sudden resolution.
“Yes, you will. You'll give me every nickel of it.”
“No, NO.”