On the evening of the twenty-eighth of the lunar year, the wind blowing was sharper than a knife; at such times, a small sip of hot cocoa would warm both hands and heart.
All of this was merely Su Ziceng's wishful thinking. Chang Mei's voice was so sharp and piercing, constantly scraping against one's eardrums. She even angrily snatched Su Qingzhang's cane and smashed it to the ground.
Su Ziceng did not dare to get too close; the wind occasionally carried bits of their conversation to his ears, but what he heard was incomprehensible.
"Su Qingzhang...do you see her as that despicable woman...don't forget...stolen...dead..."
Su Qingzhang seemed to be provoked by her words, breaking free from Chang Mei's grasp and getting into the car.
Chang Mei, using the cane, tapped fiercely against the car door; she had completely lost her usual composure, looking no different from a madwoman ranting in the streets.
