"Kiss me, then.

Tell me, Mac, did you think any less of me that first time I let you kiss me there in the station?
Oh, Mac, dear, what a funny nose you've got, all full of hairs inside; and, Mac, do you know you've got a bald spot--" she dragged his head down towards her--"right on the top of your head." Then she would seriously kiss the bald spot in question, declaring: "That'll make the hair grow." Trina took an infinite enjoyment in playing with McTeague's great square-cut head, rumpling his hair till it stood on end, putting her fingers in his eyes, or stretching his ears out straight, and watching the effect with her head on one side.

It was like a little child playing with some gigantic, good-natured Saint Bernard.
One particular amusement they never wearied of.

The two would lean across the table towards each other, McTeague folding his arms under his breast.

Then Trina, resting on her elbows, would part his mustache-the great blond mustache of a viking--with her two hands, pushing it up from his lips, causing his face to assume the appearance of a Greek mask.