The north wind carried the snow foam and poured it into my neck.
Gu Qingrang wrapped herself tightly in the musty-smelling singlet, and her toes were so cold that she lost all feeling.
The red paint on the gate of Qingxu Academy is peeling off, making it appear simple and solemn.
Abao huddled behind her, tightly holding the inkstone wrapped with rags layer after layer in his arms.
That was the last valuable thing in the Gu family.
The concierge was a middle-aged man wearing a green coat. His eyelids were drooped, and he glanced at the corner of Gu Qingrang's robe that was covered in mud.
No letters of recommendation.
The concierge waved his hand, as if chasing away a wild dog that broke into the kitchen.
Abao was anxious and wanted to move forward. As soon as he shouted "Master", the concierge pushed him away.
The snow is slippery.
Abao fell backwards into the muddy water. The square Duan Inkstone came out of his hand and hit the edge of the stone steps, breaking off a corner.
