To hurt Trina was a positive anguish for McTeague, yet an anguish which he was obliged to endure at every hour of the sitting.

It was harrowing--he sweated under it--to be forced to torture her, of all women in the world; could anything be worse than that?
"Hurt ?" he inquired, anxiously.
She answered by frowning, with a sharp intake of breath, putting her fingers over her closed lips and nodding her head.

McTeague sprayed the tooth with glycerite of tannin, but without effect.

Rather than hurt her he found himself forced to the use of anaesthesia, which he hated.
He had a notion that the nitrous oxide gas was dangerous, so on this occasion, as on all others, used ether.
He put the sponge a half dozen times to Trina's face, more nervous than he had ever been before, watching the symptoms closely.

Her breathing became short and irregular; there was a slight twitching of the muscles.
When her thumbs turned inward toward the palms, he took the sponge away.
She passed off very quickly, and, with a long sigh, sank back into the chair.
McTeague straightened up, putting the sponge upon the rack behind him, his eyes fixed upon Trina's face.