The old lady didn't sleep at all. She slept soundly, as if she was having a sweet dream. The criss-crossing lines on her face stretched out, like a piece of over-fried noodles. She couldn't eat it, but the sweet smell of butter came out from it, which was warm and happy.
This kind of happiness made Rousseau suddenly have murderous intention.
He looked quietly at the old man's loose neck, where the blue blood vessels and tendons were covered by old skin, swaying little by little.
There's nothing difficult about it. No matter how powerful a witch is, she's still a human being, not a demon.