The fragrance drifted; A Yin sat at the scrollend chair by the desk, her body still askew, the strands of hair in her bun meticulous and without a single strand loose, not even her brows ruffled, only her cheeks flushed a rosy pink, the amorous atmosphere brought out by the winter's day. She was twisting her handkerchief in her fingers, and she gazed at the A Luo's profile tiredly. If one were to have the spirit of a character attached to them, A Luo ought to be the clerical script character "placid"; the flowing river of time had bestowed her with unhurried, even-tempered features, and gentle, affectionate eyes; the flutter of her nose and the inhalation and exhalation of her lips, they were all soft and dry, especially her love of wearing a black cheongsam, her slender figure becoming an upright, regular cross, her wan, pale face and wrists the empty stretches of fine xuanzhi paper. It was just a pity that A Yin's temperment was hectic and impatient, and from ch...