The extension table was heaped high with dishes, with tea and coffee pots, and with baskets of spoons and knives and forks.

The melodeon was hauled out into the middle of the floor, and covered with a sheet marked "Lot A," the pictures were in a pile in a corner, the chenille portieres were folded on top of the black walnut table.

The room was desolate, lamentable.

Trina was going over the inventory; McTeague, in his shirt sleeves, was smoking his pipe, looking stupidly out of the window.

All at once there was a brisk rapping at the door.
"Come in," called Trina, apprehensively.