Tick –

A drop of ink dripped down the tip of his nose and blurred on the paper.

Letter, ruined.

Heart, messed up.

Shui Qingchen's throat was tight, his lips and tongue were dry, and the hand holding the pen was so hard that his fingertips turned white, restrained, restrained, and did not raise his head.

...

"Deadly Sanskrit" Chapter 0817 I like to look at me You are hitting with your hand, please wait a moment,

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