He was wearing a pair of blue overalls; a navy-blue flannel shirt without a cravat; an old coat, faded, rain-washed, and ripped at the seams; and his woollen cap.
"Say, Trina," he exclaimed, his heavy bass voice pitched just above a whisper, "let me in, will you, huh?
Say, will you?
I'm regularly starving, and I haven't slept in a Christian bed for two weeks." At sight at him standing there in the moonlight, Trina could only think of him as the man who had beaten and bitten her, had deserted her and stolen her money, had made her suffer as she had never suffered before in all her life.

Now that he had spent the money that he had stolen from her, he was whining to come back--so that he might steal more, no doubt.
Once in her room he could not help but smell out her five thousand dollars.

Her indignation rose.
"No," she whispered back at him.

"No, I will not let you in." "But listen here, Trina, I tell you I am starving, regularly----" "Hoh!" interrupted Trina scornfully.

"A man can't starve with four hundred dollars, I guess." "Well--well--I--well--" faltered the dentist.