那晚的风果真没有停。
次日清晨,素馨的两三朵白花落在泥地里,湿的,薄得像一张皮,踩上去便没了。沈玉书从厢房出来,脚差点踩到,停住,低头看了一眼,侧开半步,绕了过去。
凌霜已在廊下烧水。炉火星点细小,烟往斜里飘,她背对着他,没有回头,手里拿着那柄旧铁勺,轻轻搅了两圈,随即搁下。
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