Marcus would have killed him; had thrown his knife at him in the true, uncanny "greaser" style.

It was inexplicable.

McTeague sat down again, looking stupidly about on the floor.

In a corner of the room his eye encountered his broken pipe, a dozen little fragments of painted porcelain and the stem of cherry wood and amber.
At that sight his tardy wrath, ever lagging behind the original affront, suddenly blazed up.

Instantly his huge jaws clicked together.
"He can't make small of ME," he exclaimed, suddenly.