It’s a blessed feeling. There is real grace in it. That putting aside of rancour of a scratchy kind of amour propre, of ego-driven hurt. Nothing matters but being open, kind and loving. She has such a delicate face, moon-like, with pale Pre-Raphaelite skin set off by her long rope of red hair. I like her. I cannot help it. She writes so beautifully and feels things too. I was glad to see her. Let it be well. She was probably spooked, like a nervous filly in an unfamiliar field. And then he came over and took my hand. Did I offer it him, or was I just putting my hand on his arm and he took it? I think he is as sensitive as she is, her mother, sitting in the corner sewing is steadier, their ballast, one and all, I suspect. The real grace, of course is what it gave me. I forgive her too. I always have and always will.
