The brute that in McTeague lay so close to the surface leaped instantly to life, monstrous, not to be resisted.
He sprang to his feet with a shrill and meaningless clamor, totally unlike the ordinary bass of his speaking tones.

It was the hideous yelling of a hurt beast, the squealing of a wounded elephant.

He framed no words; in the rush of high-pitched sound that issued from his wide-open mouth there was nothing articulate.

It was something no longer human; it was rather an echo from the jungle.
Sluggish enough and slow to anger on ordinary occasions, McTeague when finally aroused became another man.

His rage was a kind of obsession, an evil mania, the drunkenness of passion, the exalted and perverted fury of the Berserker, blind and deaf, a thing insensate.
As he rose he caught Marcus's wrist in both his hands.