No, I love you, Gabriel.

I would never have confessed it; I would have died sooner than reveal my secret.

What am I that anyone should love me?
For many days I have not looked in the glass, for I should weep at the remembrance of my lost youth.

And then my story--my terrible story.

How could I imagine that you--or, I should say, that thou, wouldst read my thoughts so clearly?
See how I tremble; the shock has not yet ceased, the surprise of finding my secret discovered.