"This letter came yesterday.

Seeing the address, I took it for granted that it was for me, and so I read it, and discovered then that it was for you." Wilhelm turned pale as Schrotter handed him the letter.

It bore the Paris postmark, and Schrotter's name and address in a large, clumsy hand.

Nothing on the outside to betray that it was for Wilhelm.
Auguste--Wilhelm divined at once that he was the writer of the letter--had not thought of putting it in a second envelope directed to Wilhelm, or of adding his name to the original address.
Wilhelm's hand shook as he unfolded the letter, and a veil fell before his eyes.

For one moment he had the idea to put the letter in his pocket, and say he would read it later on, for it was torture to him that Schrotter should be a witness of the emotion he knew he must feel on reading it.