In the stillness that succeeded, the water dripped from her hands with the steady tick of a clock.

Then a brutal fist swung open the street door of the schoolroom and McTeague came in.

He was drunk; not with that drunkenness which is stupid, maudlin, wavering on its feet, but with that which is alert, unnaturally intelligent, vicious, perfectly steady, deadly wicked.

Trina only had to look once at him, and in an instant, with some strange sixth sense, born of the occasion, knew what she had to expect.
She jumped up and ran from him into the little cloakroom.

She locked and bolted the door after her, and leaned her weight against it, panting and trembling, every nerve shrinking and quivering with the fear of him.
McTeague put his hand on the knob of the door outside and opened it, tearing off the lock and bolt guard, and sending her staggering across the room.
"Mac," she cried to him, as he came in, speaking with horrid rapidity, cringing and holding out her hands, "Mac, listen.