A violent disagreement that was almost a quarrel followed.
"I simply do not understand you," he said at last, in complete disgust. It was only the wondrous, beaming happy mood he was in that prevented his being really angry. He threw his hands up and snorted. "You are either a fool or a saint, and—I'm sure you're not a saint." He was very much upset.
I did not yield. There was something in me that persuaded me to forgive Boyde and to give him yet another chance. I told Boyde this in very plain language. I claim no credit—I have never felt the smallest credit—for what I did. It was simply that somehow it seemed impossible not to forgive him—anything. But the time was near, though the feeling of forgiveness still held true in me, when my forgiveness took another form. Thirty years ago these little incidents occurred. It seems like thirty days.
