They had hardly spoken on the way.

McTeague's brain was in a whirl; speech failed him.

He was busy thinking of the great thing that had happened that night, and was trying to realize what its effect would be upon his life--his life and Trina's.

As soon as they had found themselves in the street, Marcus had relapsed at once to a sullen silence, which McTeague was too abstracted to notice.
They entered the tiny office of the hospital with its red carpet, its gas stove, and its colored prints of famous dogs hanging against the walls.

In one corner stood the iron bed which they were to occupy.
"You go on an' get to bed, Mac," observed Marcus.