The Ugly Slave Girl July
Unadorned, yet purer still, she dances, startling the maidens of the Luo River. Her jade-like face is clouded with sorrow. Could it be that the flowers she planted grew jealous of her?
A cherry-tea letter, its words turned to rhyme; old wine, a new stove. Jianxia, Baisu. When the heart is dead, is there a place where flowers can be buried?
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