He clicked the arrow.
Zofia blinked. Then she laughed—a short, incredulous bark. "Tomas. I wrote: 'I think of you when I close the books.' " She pointed at the Polish sentence. "But not you you. The bookseller from Krakow. The one who sells me the rare maps. I wrote it as a reminder to email him."
He hit translate. Google gave him: "Kiedy zamykasz moje książki, moje serce otwiera się jak zapomniany rozdział."