He hesitated. He wished he had the time to solve this riddle, for it was a riddle, and four-square besides. As they left Florence, dying men and women still scrabbled through the streets, screams emanating from the rows of houses, beggars running up to the horses, sick children in their arms, their eyes bleeding, their noses running, begging to join them in their journey out. "You are all right?"—anxiously. She twanged the catgut under her fingers. The man muttered something inaudible, and gathered up the reins. “It isn’t a joke,” she said.
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