At the gates of both of Zhang Bin's villas, a pair of couplets were hung.
Yes, hung, not pasted.
If they were hung, they could be taken down and preserved for the future. No one could bear to damage such beautiful couplets.
At this very moment, a group of villagers was gathered in front of Zhang Bin's villa, admiring the couplets he had written with rapt fascination.
And Mother Zhang was there, boasting proudly. "Have you ever seen such beautiful calligraphy? I'm sure you haven't. Let me tell you, my son is an unparalleled calligraphy genius! He only practiced for three months—no, no, one month—and his skill reached the pinnacle. If this pair of couplets were put up for sale, how much do you guess they would be worth?"
"A thousand."
"Two hundred."
"Five thousand."
"..."
