When I first met her, she was wearing a dirty white tutu, with a red nose sobbing softly like an abandoned puppy. When I met her for the second time, I watched her stop the car desperately through the fog and raindrops sliding down the window, and used her pleading eyes and trembling voice to save the old woman beside her. It was as if the old man was her only support. At that time, she had already run out of lamp oil and was lifeless. She looked out the window indifferently and indifferently, as if nothing could disturb him. The third time I met her, she was wearing a dark blue satin evening dress with a high slit that was torn open because of the trouble. She was kneeling on the ground to give artificial respiration to the heinous leader. At that time, she was calm, calm and orderly. But her eyes were filled with an unbreakable emptiness.