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Confused about post length? See the ToC linked below, read it well.
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An old man was at the corner. The kind-hearted waiter didn’t drive him away. That old body looked shrunken from dehydration, his face wrinkled, sparse hair in disarray, and worn cotton clothes on him. His hands were put together in prayer as he knelt on the ground, bowing to passersby nonstop, a cracked bowl placed beside him.
Zhang Chengling looked at him, his ears filled with Cao Weining’s pompous talk of, “…There is a saying that the aroma of chrysanthemums arises from bitter cold…”