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The cold wind, carrying particles of sleet, pelted the window lattice, making a soft RUSTLING sound. It was as if countless icy hands were knocking on the door from outside.
Chu Fan, wrapped in a worn, ink-black cotton robe, sat alone at the wooden table by the window, flipping through a scroll in his hands.
On the table sat a green-glazed oil lamp. Its flame flickered in the draft, stretching his thin shadow long across the mottled wall.
The opened *Qing Provinc ...
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