In 1925, Shanghai was already known as the Paris of the East. Prosperous and glorious, there is also a mixture of people and people. The old Bund is filled with a unique Western armpit smell from time to time, but it cannot avoid the favor of social women. The rickshaw drivers, the breakfast stalls, the cabaret dancers, all are eking out a glorious existence.
But if it weren't for this land, scenery and time, Lin Jinshu would never have discovered Liu Qingwen, who they didn't have any intersection with. Lin Jinshu once thought that maybe Liu's smell was too different from the general public, although he didn't know whether the smell was considered to be welcomed by others; maybe his sense of smell was too annoyingly sensitive. Liu Qingwen, who was born in troubled times, is, in Jinshu's words, a piece of silk that feels comfortable to the touch. It is a rare top-grade silk, but of course not everyone can wear it next to the skin. What kind of money does Jinshu earn? No matter how dirty the money is, as long as there is a lot of money, he doesn't believe that the world is not greedy, let alone that he can't afford a piece of white silk. A piece of white silk, how much does it cost? How many times can I have fun wearing it?
Qingwen couldn't help but laugh when he saw his appearance. He only spoke one sentence, and it didn't take him even a moment to open and close his mouth.
Before Jinshu closed the door, he only asked: "Do you really think you can walk out of this dye vat without a drop of water or a touch of color?"
Rumors, people's words are terrible, it really doesn't take even a moment to open and shut up.
"Jinshu, you are almost ready to kill me."
"Qingwen, in fact, in the end, white silk or red silk will become the clothes of the times until they turn black."