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Zhao Rong left Qing Jun’s boudoir and meandered around the back house.
Having rushed out the door, his black hair was still loosely hanging down, tied carelessly with a string. Underneath, he wore a white inner garment, and over it, he draped a blue Confucian robe, fastening the waist belt as he walked.
Suddenly, the sound of Qian’er’s footsteps and her crisp, melodious voice followed.
"Rong’er bro, wait for me, I’ll help you dress..."
Zhao Rong quic ...
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