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McTeague - Frank Norris

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{Editor's note: The word can~on has been changed to canyon
in each case.}

A Story of San Francisco

by Frank Norris


It was Sunday, and, according to his custom on that day,
McTeague took his dinner at two in the afternoon at the car
conductors' coffee-joint on Polk Street.  He had a thick
gray soup; heavy, underdone meat, very hot, on a cold plate;
two kinds of vegetables; and a sort of suet pudding, full of
strong butter and sugar.  On his way back to his office, one
block above, he stopped at Joe Frenna's saloon and bought a
pitcher of steam beer.  It was his habit to leave the
pitcher there on his way to dinner.

Once in his office, or, as he called it on his signboard,
"Dental Parlors," he took off his coat and shoes, unbuttoned
his vest, and, having crammed his little stove full of coke,
lay back in his operating chair at the bay window, reading
the paper, drinking his beer, and smoking his huge porcelain
pipe while his food digested; crop-full, stupid, and warm. 
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