The first French novel I read was bought for 5 euros from a small second-hand bookstore in Angers, France. The title was "La dame aux camélias". I had read the Chinese version in China before, but now I am revisiting this masterpiece by Mr. Dumas in its original form, and I can't help but be touched by the plot of the story again. If it weren't for Mr. Dumas Xiao's reminder at this moment, I might never have thought of putting a similar experience into words. As Mr. Wang said, the reason why we write stories is that they are relatively special. If it is something that everyone is used to seeing, then naturally there is no need to talk about it. Margaret in "La Traviata" is actually quite lucky. After all, in the end, her soul was purified and her emotions were sublimated. After all, in the long years since her death until today, countless people from all over the world have gone to her tomb to pay homage to her, pay homage to her, and express their endless grief to her with countless camellias.
But the girl in the story I am about to write about has always been insulated from luck. I can't remember how long it has been since I last encountered her in my memory, just as I haven't read "La Traviata" again for a long time.
Here, I would like to use vulgar words instead to offer her a little flower...