It's not that I don't believe him. I just don't dare to.
It's not that I don't believe you, my lord. I just don't trust myself.
Apart from the gold ingots and my one true love,
all the rabbit has left nearby are fair-weather friends.
What rotten luck: after the apocalypse, I transmigrated and turned into a little flat-chested thing.
Now I spend my days growing bizarre plants with a bunch of shady little tangerines.
Ask not about the world's calamities or its fated bonds.
"Wait, this familiar one... I'm a girl!!!..." I will think a lot about this scene, which is a bit violent. . ,
O Persimmon's bloody life. . . It stands to reason that only when you are fighting landlords, you will be as thoughtful as if you have diabetes. You are sure. . .
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