He saw her tiny, round figure, dressed all in black--for, curiously enough, it was his very first impression of Trina that came back to him now--not the Trina of the later occasions, not the Trina of the blue cloth skirt and white sailor.
He saw her as he had seen her the day that Marcus had introduced them: saw her pale, round face; her narrow, half-open eyes, blue like the eyes of a baby; her tiny, pale ears, suggestive of anaemia; the freckles across the bridge of her nose; her pale lips; the tiara of royal black hair; and, above all, the delicious poise of the head, tipped back as though by the weight of all that hair--the poise that thrust out her chin a little, with the movement that was so confiding, so innocent, so nearly infantile.
McTeague went softly about the room from one object to another, beholding Trina in everything he touched or looked at.

He came at last to the closet door.

It was ajar.

He opened it wide, and paused upon the threshold.
Trina's clothes were hanging there--skirts and waists, jackets, and stiff white petticoats.

What a vision! For an instant McTeague caught his breath, spellbound.