His hatred of Trina came back upon him like a returning surge.

He saw her small, prim mouth, her narrow blue eyes, her black mane of hair, and up-tilted chin, and hated her the more because of them.

Aha, he'd show her; he'd make her dance.

He'd get that seven dollars from her, or he'd know the reason why.

He went through his work that day, heaving and hauling at the ponderous pianos, handling them with the ease of a lifting crane, impatient for the coming of evening, when he could be left to his own devices.