"Brother Lu, do you want to take a breath? This old book is going to make you blind!"
Wang Hao, who was working next door, came over with an enamel vat with some unrinsed tea leaves still stained on the rim. He spoke with a strong smell of Northeastern slag, and his voice was loud enough to make the ceiling fan on the roof buzz.
Lu Tian did not raise his head, holding a hair-thin repair needle between his fingertips, and was carefully picking up the damaged corners of the pages of the Ming Dynasty's only copy of "The Analects of Confucius". His movements were as slow as a snail's crawl, with his usual gentle smile on his face, and his voice, which was clear and smooth, was very comfortable to listen to: "It's okay, I'm almost done with this page, and I'm in a hurry to give it to the Lin family."
