see her as distinctly as in a mirror. He saw her tiny, round figure,
dressed all in black--for, curiously enough, it was his very first
impression of Trina that came back to him now--not the Trina of the
later occasions, not the Trina of the blue cloth skirt and white sailor.
He saw her as he had seen her the day that Marcus had introduced them:
saw her pale, round face; her narrow, half-open eyes, blue like the
eyes of a baby; her tiny, pale ears, suggestive of anaemia; the freckles
across the bridge of her nose; her pale lips; the tiara of royal black
hair; and, above all, the delicious poise of the head, tipped back as
though by the weight of all that hair--the poise that thrust out her
chin a little, with the movement that was so confiding, so innocent, so
nearly infantile.

McTeague went softly about the room from one object to another,
beholding Trina in everything he touched or looked at. He came at last
to the closet door. It was ajar. He opened it wide, and paused upon the
threshold.

Trina's clothes were hanging there--skirts and waists, jackets, and
stiff white petticoats. What a vision! For an instant McTeague caught
his breath, spellbound. If he had suddenly discovered Trina herself
there, smiling at him, holding out her hands, he could hardly have been
more overcome. Instantly he recognized the black dress she had worn on
that famous first day. There it was, the little jacket she had
carried over her arm the day he had terrified her with his blundering
declaration, and still others, and others--a whole group of Trinas
faced him there. He went farther into the closet, touching the clothes
gingerly, stroking them softly with his huge leathern palms. As he
stirred them a delicate perfume disengaged itself from the folds. Ah,
that exquisite feminine odor! It was not only her hair now, it was