“You have forgiven me, haven’t you?” “Yes.” He thought about it. “Yes, I have. God knows why. You’re peculiar, you’re aggravating, yet you’re easy to forgive. You say you’re seventeen?” “Well—next month.” “How odd. How strange. And my wife thirty and yet you seem so much older at times. I can’t get over it.” “You’re peculiar yourself, Mr. Montag. Sometimes I even forget you’re a fireman. Now, may I make you angry again?” “Go ahead.”
