If they could have known, they would have shunned the fearful risk.

But they were allowed no voice in the matter.

Why should it all be?
It had been on a Wednesday that the scene in the B Street station had taken place.

Throughout the rest of the week, at every hour of the day, Trina asked herself the same question: "Do I love him?
Do I really love him?
Is this what love is like ?" As she recalled McTeague--recalled his huge, square-cut head, his salient jaw, his shock of yellow hair, his heavy, lumbering body, his slow wits--she found little to admire in him beyond his physical strength, and at such moments she shook her head decisively.

"No, surely she did not love him." Sunday afternoon, however, McTeague called.