“Easy enough to live with this when you’re old like us,” he went on, “but when you’re young,” and he paused to run his hand over his bald pate, his little apostolic flame of white baby hair. “When you’re young, it’s fuel to the fire of a sympathetic heart.” He smiled at Stella again. “Tikkun olam,” he said. “Go forth and do likewise.”
Repair the world
