The sunlight outside was blinding, but the dorm room was somewhat dim.
People outside were wearing short sleeves and even using umbrellas to shade themselves from the sun, yet the sunless dorm room remained cold and dreary.
Baozi was wearing a coat, hunched over the desk, earnestly writing a paper for Zhou Li.
I'm not copying.
Really, I'm not.
Although for a course like "Situation and Policy," one could easily find a plethora of final essays online, and everyone was copying them—there might be only seven or eight versions for dozens of students in a class, and the teachers didn't care at all.
Yet she still didn't copy.
She was seriously writing, seriously brainstorming, occasionally pulling up web pages to check how others wrote and to reference their ideas.
And her handwriting was exceptionally neat and beautiful.
Meticulous and scrupulous, writing 1,500 words this way was exhausting.
"Phew..."
