A Yin had already seen the matter on the young lady’s mind, but had not necessarily seen the resplendently blossoming spring flowers wilted by frost. Song Shijiu’s gaze was thoroughly perplexed, her face even whiter than wallpaste, her face numb as she said, “Tu, Tu Laoyao?” The image of Tu Laoyao’s beady eyes and large belly passed her mind, his sturdy hands and grinning appearance, unable to resist wiping his neck. A Yin leaned her body to the side, her wrist supporting her head, and said with a smile, “If it’s not, is it possible that it’s me?” She raised her hand to touch Song Shijiu’s chin, and shook her head. “I won’t do; I’m a courtyard full of peaches and plums, and you’re just a small cape jasmine flower.” Song Shijiu bit her lip, half her face hidden beneath the quilt, and paused a moment, before declaring in a small voice, “It’s not you either.” A Yin narrowed her charming eyes and gazed at her for a bit, the corners of her lips seeming to rise a bit, and she laughed softly,