About to return to A Luo’s residence, it was just noon; Tu Laoyao brought along soft, chewy, salted and fragrant stewed trotters, accompanying the appetisers that Wu Qian had made, as well as a pot of aged Shaoxing yellow wine, and the group of people ate and drank in the courtyard. The pig trotters had been soaked to a deep, red-brown colour, the skin melting in the mouth, not even a bit greasy, the chewy tendons pulling at the lean meat adhered to the bone, prompting one to lick the meat stock in the cracks of the bones clean. The more the group ate, the more aromatic they became, and the more Song Shijiu suffered, covering up her nose and struggling to eat; in the end it was Tu Laoyao who came up with a solution, twisting up a few strips of paper to plug her nose with, and only then did she sit down and begin to use her chopsticks. Having eaten and drunk to his heart’s content, Tu Laoyao sat on a rattan chair and rubbed his stomach, belching; Wu Qian gathered up the bowls and chopst