It was the eighth day of the twelfth lunar month in the 19th year of Dajing Yong'an.
Shen's residence was decorated with lanterns and colorful decorations, but underneath the festive red silk, all the knives were hidden.
Shen Haitang knelt on the cold bluestone floor of the ancestral hall, his knees already numb. On the long table in front of me, three sticks of incense were half burned, and the green smoke floated upward, making people's eyes sore.
There were footsteps outside the door, but Shen Haitang did not raise his head.
She knew who was coming.
"Third girl, have you thought clearly?"
The voice of the matriarch of the Shen family, Fang, sounded condescending from above her head. Shen Haitang has long been used to it after listening to it for more than ten years.
"Madam, my daughter doesn't understand, doesn't this marriage belong to the eldest sister?" Shen Haitang's voice was very soft, a little hoarse, and sounded very pitiful.
Fang sneered and sat down in front of her.
"Your eldest sister is rich and wealthy. Isn't it a waste to marry someone to serve a disabled person? You are suitable. Your mother is the same anyway..."
Fang didn't finish what she said, but the meaning was clear enough.
Shen Haitang lowered his head and dug his nails into his palms.
Anyway, your mother is a bitch, so you are a perfect match for marrying a cripple.
