She'd dance all right--all right.
McTeague was not an imaginative man by nature, but he would lie awake nights, his clumsy wits galloping and frisking under the lash of the alcohol, and fancy himself thrashing his wife, till a sudden frenzy of rage would overcome him, and he would shake all over, rolling upon the bed and biting the mattress.
On a certain day, about a week after Christmas of that year, McTeague was on one of the top floors of the music store, where the second-hand instruments were kept, helping to move about and rearrange some old pianos.

As he passed by one of the counters he paused abruptly, his eye caught by an object that was strangely familiar.
"Say," he inquired, addressing the clerk in charge, "say, where'd this come from ?" "Why, let's see.

We got that from a second-hand store up on Polk Street, I guess.

It's a fairly good machine; a little tinkering with the stops and a bit of shellac, and we'll make it about's good as new.

Good tone.