He missed the cabbage soups and steaming chocolate that Trina had taught him to like; he missed his good tobacco that Trina had educated him to prefer; he missed the Sunday afternoon walks that she had caused him to substitute in place of his nap in the operating chair; and he missed the bottled beer that she had induced him to drink in place of the steam beer from Frenna's.

In the end he grew morose and sulky, and sometimes neglected to answer his wife when she spoke to him.

Besides this, Trina's avarice was a perpetual annoyance to him.

Oftentimes when a considerable alleviation of this unhappiness could have been obtained at the expense of a nickel or a dime, Trina refused the money with a pettishness that was exasperating.
"No, no," she would exclaim.

"To ride to the park Sunday afternoon, that means ten cents, and I can't afford it." "Let's walk there, then." "I've got to work." "But you've worked morning and afternoon every day this week." "I don't care, I've got to work." There had been a time when Trina had hated the idea of McTeague drinking steam beer as common and vulgar.
"Say, let's have a bottle of beer to-night.