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Xiaoxiao was on the kang in the main house, diligently copying books until her wrists ached. This was truly not the work for humans; writing with a brush was nothing like a pen—too slow and terribly tiring on the hand. This was not a sustainable solution. To think of Yang Ming, who had been copying books for years, he really had perseverance, sigh! Why did she suddenly start thinking about him? Xiaoxiao pondered, when suddenly she heard her own stomach rumbling!
The afternoon had p ...
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