By this time the person who had asked the question would have forgotten what it was,
so Beppo's answer seemed peculiar in the extreme. Only Momo was capable of waiting patiently enough to grasp his meaning.
She knew that Beppo took as long as he did because he was determined never to say anything untrue.
In his opinion, all the world's misfortunes stemmed from the countless untruths, both deliberate and unintentional,
which people told because of haste or carelessness.
Every morning, long before daybreak, Beppo rode his squeaky old bicycle to a big depot in town.
There, he and his fellow road-sweepers waited in the yard to be issued brooms and pushcarts and told which streets to sweep.
Beppo enjoyed these hours before dawn, when the city was still asleep, and he did his work willingly and well.
It was a useful job, and he knew it. He swept his allotted streets slowly but steadily,
drawing a deep breath before every step and every stroke of the broom. Step, breathe, sweep, breathe, step, breathe, sweep...
Every so often he would pause a while, staring thoughtfully into the distance.
And then he would begin again: step, breathe, sweep...
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