Sitting on the sofa, Song Jianquan, who was curled up beside him, closed his eyes. It was obvious that he had been unconscious for a long time.
"Good evening, Miss Song."
Holding a glittering money fan, the man smiled, a particularly charming smile: "Do you remember me?"
You are one of them.
Song Nanfu felt a bit frozen. You were a strange person on the street that day."
"Haha," he said.
I took a picture of the silver paper fan, put it on, and then there was a sharp echo. This man sometimes regretted a little: "Miss Song seems to have forgotten me, although she doesn't like to be forgotten, but since it is Miss Song, this time can be forgiven."
Gu Zhiyu did not ask a bell to knock on the door, but instead asked Miss Song not to resist.
This was an order, and these old wise men clenched their fists, cleansing themselves through Song Nanfu and the bow.
"You, how did you get into my house?"
