While descending, I entered the office of work Jacinto and stumbled into a heap of black hardware, wheels, blades, rings, screws … I half-opened window, and I recognized the phone, Theaterphone, the phonograph, other appliances, tumbled from their pedestals, filthy, broken under the dust of years. I pushed with his foot this waste of human ingenuity. The typewriter, wide open, with black holes marking letters uprooted, it was like a toothless mouth ave. The phone seemed squashed, coiled wire in their guts. In the horn of the phonograph, pie, esbeiçada, forever changes, beetles were swarming. And there lay, also pitiful and grotesque, those brilliant inventions, I went out laughing, as a huge jest, that super-civilized palace.

The rain dried up in April: the roofs of the city remote negrejavam upon a sunset of crimson and gold. And through the streets cooler, I was thinking that our magnificent nineteenth century would look like, one day, to that jasmine abandoned, and that other men, with a certainty which is the purest life and happiness, would, like me, foot in the trash {122} super-civilization, and, like me, laugh happily ending of the great illusion, pointless and covered with rust.

At that time, the right-Jacinto, on the balcony in Torger without phonograph and no phone, reentered the simplicity, saw, under the peace slow in the afternoon, the first flicker of the star, to collect cattle from the corner of Cattle. { 123}
The treasure
I

The three brothers Medranhos, Rui, and Guannes Rostabal, were then, throughout the Kingdom of Asturias, the nobles and the most hungriest patched.