Latest txt Complete Works of Zhang Ailing's Short Stories

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Liu Xing stood at the door with a pipe in his mouth and a fork in his waist. The rain didn't stop until the wet thatch on the roof dripped down. Underground, high and low yellow quagmire, Wang with green water. There are a few plants of green bristlegrass in the water, and the faint chestnut ears gently shake with the water vortex. The oncoming wind is still cold, blowing from the tip of the nose, but it seems to be a little more fragrant than winter.

Lu Xing knocked on the ash on the board door, fastened the belt around his waist and walked to the bullpen. Over there, the thin sunshine in Chu Qingli penetrates through the fence, and the soil is evenly covered with rectangular shadows and light. Two thin and timid little yellow chickens, shaking their sticky wings, pecked around. In the cowshed, the dusty empty sink lay alone, covered with a layer of paper, drying dried vegetables. In the corner, hay scraps still exist. One side of the fence is rubbed white, which is worn by cows when their necks itch after eating enough grass. Lu Xing gently put his hand on the worn fence and stroked the rough wood. A wisp of bitter taste on the bridge of the nose slowly climbed up, blocked the throat and filled the eyes with tears.

Eyes.

He was taken aback-he heard heavy breathing behind him. Looking back, he didn't know when Mrs. Luxing stood behind him, staring at the empty cowshed, her hair blown by the wind and her chin slightly tilted. ...

It should be the whole book.