I mean, if I am where I hear falling water; sometimes thunder." Wilfrid masked his complete mystification with a caressing smile; not without a growing respect for the only person who could make him experience the pangs of conscious silliness.

You see, he was not a coxcomb.
"That German!" Emilia enlightened him.
"Your old music-master ?" "I wish it, I wish it! I should soon be free from him.

Don't you know that dreadful man I told you about, who's like a black angel to me, because there is no music like his?
and he's a German! I told you how I first dreamed about him, and then regularly every night, after talking with my father about Italy and his black-yellow Tedeschi, this man came over my pillow and made me call him Master, Master.

And he is.

He seems as if he were the master of my soul, mocking me, making me worship him in spite of my hate.