The heavy rain was as if God had poured a basin over it, making the eaves crackle. The muddy dirt road had long been washed out of order, and the potholes were filled with yellow and turbid rainwater. Ye Wuhen huddled in the drafty adobe house of his house, copying the borrowed "The Analects of Confucius" on rough linen paper by the faint oil lamp. The paper was cut from scrap paper, and the ink was the cheapest pine smoke ink. It was so light that the handwriting could hardly be seen clearly, but he copied it very carefully. The rustling sound of the pen tip across the paper was able to stand out among the noisy rain.
