I have spent weeks and months by the side of your machine, seeing how industriously you worked.

I have studied you and read you.

You are a sincere and simple creature; your mind has none of the doublings and hidden corners of those complicated and tortuous souls used to the artifices of civilisation.

I guessed day by day, by your gentle glance and the attention with which you listened to me, your gratitude for the little I was able to do for you.

I remembered the dark period of your life, your slavery to the flesh; and finding me always gentle with you, protecting you from your father's anger, your gratitude has grown and grown, till to-day you love me, Sagrario.
You yourself have not realised it, you know not how to explain it, but your being responds to mine like those chemical substances I spoke of.
That single and eternal love is a lying invention of the poets, of which facts often make a mockery.