He looks at her with a smile, and, as it seems to me, he surveys her body.

How does he dare to think of her, to think of the possibility of a romance with her?
And how can she, seeing this, tolerate him?
Not only does she tolerate him, but she seems pleased.

I even see that she puts herself to trouble on his account.

And in my soul there rises such a hatred for her that each of her words, each gesture, disgusts me.

She notices it, she knows not what to do, and how assume an air of indifferent animation?
Ah! I suffer! That makes her gay, she is content.