At the beginning of her decline, Santa did not view her prospects with the piano player's pessimism. To the contrary, she kept stubbornly optimistic, possibly as a way of maintaining her fighting spirit, as well. She even claimed to see some benefits in the recent turn of events:

“I've had a chance to learn something I've been curious about for a long time, Hipo,” she commented to the disbelieving musician, “which is how poor prostitutes manage to get along. If I decide I don't want that kind of life, I can always go back to what I was doing before. I'm practically rich, you know, Hipo. Don't worry! And once I've satisfied my curiosity, why, I'll go back to some high-priced house or maybe move in with you. How would that be? You'll get what you've dreamed about, and I'll settle down and regain my health … But for now, don't stand in my way or predict horrible stuff that's not going to happen. Let me try this, just a few more days, okay? I'll finally get fed up with it, and then I'll really turn over a new leaf and become your faithful woman, okay? … You won't get mad? You'll still love me?”

And finally, influenced by the alcohol and her progressive debasement, Santa even overcame the physical repugnance she had felt toward the blind man and caressed him with feline cunning. Hipólito lost all self control, at that point, kissing her face and neck and hugging her so tightly that she could not breathe, as if Santa's concession gave him the right to do it or as if his pent-up passion had finally overflowed and streamed out of his every pore.

On one occasion, he almost possessed her, spurred by the power of his repressed animal desires and by the growing intimacy between him and her. These days he usually visited her in one of the fleabag hotels where she bedded her anonymous customers, after her temporary owner had exited the scene, leaving in payment the standard fee, a handful of coins that shimmered on a bed table in the half light of the shuttered room, with a lazy hint of tobacco, liquor, and male sweat wafting gently in the atmosphere, an odor similar to, though much fainter than, the smell of a stable where many cattle have spent the night, once the animals have gone out to pasture and sun has begun to stir the manure with its entering rays. Hipólito would show up, guided by Jenaro, and give free rein to his fears, supplications, and dire prophecies. The stink of the place would drive him crazy, make his heart seize up, drive the rivulets of tears slowly across the white globes of his eyes without irises, seeming to wrinkle them. How many mornings did he enter her room and weep helplessly, unable even to say hello, standing in the middle of the room and waving his cane like a sword that he eventually lowered without punishing the harlot, much less thrashing his own despised weakness, a weakness that brought him back, day after day, to witness this ignominy. She made him want to die, but still he adored her! And day after day, he proffered the same protest and the same oath: