A stroke of blue smoke dragged across the window, just like Mary's red hair scattered on the goose down pillow, which was growing yellow.
It is sad that Mary spent her life using and being used.
When Mary passed away, she recalled the past. She felt that she could write a memoir critical of realism, but she also felt that she was also the target of criticism, so she could only sigh, look at the sky, and shed tears.
Pfft, the copywriter is incompetent. My heart is filled with excitement when I see the copywriter.
As for the male protagonist, I'm not stupid, so why should I spoil it in the copy?
Okay, that's it. I'm trying to figure out the word count, but for a moment I thought the author was so cute.
Will I be struck by lightning if I dismantle Sexia? I'm going to buy a lightning rod~