About This Novel
Xu Mingliang is in his fifties, short, thin, with wrinkles on his face and a bit bald. It was a hot day, and when he felt anxious, his blood pressure shot up. His feet felt as if they were soft, and a red mist appeared in front of his eyes. Mu Tuo didn't have any discernment, so he just asked with a straight face: "Master, what should we do? The tickets are sold out, should we perform on the weekend or not?" "Perform! Come to a special performance of Mu Tuo!" Xu Mingliang was annoyed. Mu Tuo held a mop, said "Ah" and lowered his head. In the dilapidated Guangming Bookstore, there is no hint of Guangming at all. Tables and chairs are scattered here and there, and stools are scattered here and there. During the weekend night performances, the lights were covered, the laughter was covered, and there was still a lot of warmth. Now it was so late in the afternoon, and all the old and worn-out clothes were exposed without shame.
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