She took possession of his past, she crept into his ideas and
sentiments; she wanted to know everything about him, down to the
smallest details. He must tell her about every day, every hour of
his existence; she made the acquaintance of his entire circle of
friends; she loathed Loulou, she adored Schrotter, she went into
raptures over gentle, refined Bhani, she smiled at Paul Haber and
his well-dressed Malvine, and her inventive grandmamma; she
determined to send good Frau Muller (who had looked after Wilhelm
for ten years like a mother) a beautiful Christmas present. She
could make personal remarks on all his friends and acquaintances,
and her only trouble was that she knew no German. What would she not
have given to be able to read the letters he wrote or received, to
converse with him in his mother-tongue! She loved and admired the
French language, which, although she retained the ineradicable
accent of her country, she spoke as fluently as Spanish; but now,
for the first time, she felt something akin to hatred against it for
being the one remaining barrier--certainly a very slight and
scarcely perceptible one--between herself and Wilhelm, which forever
drew his attention to the fact that she was not naturally a part of
his life, and prevented their absolute union, the growing together
of their souls.
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