McTeague Frank Norris (the best books of all time TXT) đ
- Author: Frank Norris
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âNo, you ask,â she whispered.
âAh, go on; what you âfraid of?â urged Marcus. Trina shook her head energetically, shutting her lips together.
âWell, listen here,â answered Marcus, nudging her; then raising his voice, he said:
âHow do, Maria?â Maria nodded to him over her shoulder as she bent over the lounge.
âWorkun hard nowadays, Maria?â
âPretty hard.â
âDidunt always have to work for your living, though, did you, when you ate offa gold dishes?â Maria didnât answer, except by putting her chin in the air and shutting her eyes, as though to say she knew a long story about that if she had a mind to talk. All Marcusâs efforts to draw her out on the subject were unavailing. She only responded by movements of her head.
âCanât always start her going,â Marcus told his cousin.
âWhat does she do, though, when you ask her about her name?â
âOh, sure,â said Marcus, who had forgotten. âSay, Maria, whatâs your name?â
âHuh?â asked Maria, straightening up, her hands on he hips.
âTell us your name,â repeated Marcus.
âName is Mariaâ âMirandaâ âMacapa.â Then, after a pause, she added, as though she had but that moment thought of it, âHad a flying squirrel anâ let him go.â
Invariably Maria Macapa made this answer. It was not always she would talk about the famous service of gold plate, but a question as to her name never failed to elicit the same strange answer, delivered in a rapid undertone: âName is Mariaâ âMirandaâ âMacapa.â Then, as if struck with an after thought, âHad a flying squirrel anâ let him go.â
Why Maria should associate the release of the mythical squirrel with her name could not be said. About Maria the flat knew absolutely nothing further than that she was Spanish-American. Miss Baker was the oldest lodger in the flat, and Maria was a fixture there as maid of all work when she had come. There was a legend to the effect that Mariaâs people had been at one time immensely wealthy in Central America.
Maria turned again to her work. Trina and Marcus watched her curiously. There was a silence. The corundum burr in McTeagueâs engine hummed in a prolonged monotone. The canary bird chittered occasionally. The room was warm, and the breathing of the five people in the narrow space made the air close and thick. At long intervals an acrid odor of ink floated up from the branch post-office immediately below.
Maria Macapa finished her work and started to leave. As she passed near Marcus and his cousin she stopped, and drew a bunch of blue tickets furtively from her pocket. âBuy a ticket in the lottery?â she inquired, looking at the girl. âJust a dollar.â
âGo along with you, Maria,â said Marcus, who had but thirty cents in his pocket. âGo along; itâs against the law.â
âBuy a ticket,â urged Maria, thrusting the bundle toward Trina. âTry your luck. The butcher on the next block won twenty dollars the last drawing.â
Very uneasy, Trina bought a ticket for the sake of being rid of her. Maria disappeared.
âAinât she a queer bird?â muttered Marcus. He was much embarrassed and disturbed because he had not bought the ticket for Trina.
But there was a sudden movement. McTeague had just finished with Miss Baker.
âYou should notice,â the dressmaker said to the dentist, in a low voice, âhe always leaves the door a little ajar in the afternoon.â When she had gone out, Marcus Schouler brought Trina forward.
âSay, Mac, this is my cousin, Trina Sieppe.â The two shook hands dumbly, McTeague slowly nodding his huge head with its great shock of yellow hair. Trina was very small and prettily made. Her face was round and rather pale; her eyes long and narrow and blue, like the half-open eyes of a little baby; her lips and the lobes of her tiny ears were pale, a little suggestive of anaemia; while across the bridge of her nose ran an adorable little line of freckles. But it was to her hair that oneâs attention was most attracted. Heaps and heaps of blue-black coils and braids, a royal crown of swarthy bands, a veritable sable tiara, heavy, abundant, odorous. All the vitality that should have given color to her face seemed to have been absorbed by this marvellous hair. It was the coiffure of a queen that shadowed the pale temples of this little bourgeoise. So heavy was it that it tipped her head backward, and the position thrust her chin out a little. It was a charming poise, innocent, confiding, almost infantile.
She was dressed all in black, very modest and plain. The effect of her pale face in all this contrasting black was almost monastic.
âWell,â exclaimed Marcus suddenly, âI got to go. Must get back to work. Donât hurt her too much, Mac. Sâlong, Trina.â
McTeague and Trina were left alone. He was embarrassed, troubled. These young girls disturbed and perplexed him. He did not like them, obstinately cherishing that intuitive suspicion of all things feminineâ âthe perverse dislike of an overgrown boy. On the other hand, she was perfectly at her ease; doubtless the woman in her was not yet awakened; she was yet, as one might say, without sex. She was almost like a boy, frank, candid, unreserved.
She took her place in the operating chair and told him what was the matter, looking squarely into his face. She had fallen out of a swing the afternoon of the preceding day; one of her teeth had been knocked loose and the other altogether broken out.
McTeague listened to her with apparent stolidity, nodding his head from time to time as she spoke. The keenness of his dislike of
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