Holding an oil-paper umbrella, she stopped by the stone bridge and gazed at the misty rain in the south of the Yangtze River until he arrived. Danyan, Danyan, how do you brush away the dust in this world lightly? Silky rain, thin smoke, cold, biting. The slender hands make an astonishing dance. A handful of ink is soft and soft, but it is deeply hidden.
She said: Zifang, I am a woman of the Yin Yang family after all, and you are the third master of Confucianism after all.
He said: Yan'er, I have no regrets in this life.