The Bishui Teahouse was closed and most of the waiters had gone home. There were only a few people staying in the teahouse, and they had all returned to their rooms.
It was the first time that Ethan Lu walked into the tile-roofed house where Nan Oliver Pei lived.
It was pitifully small, with a single bed made of wooden boards, an old tea table piled with oil paints, head ornaments, and jewelry, a chest for storing clothes, and a carved clothes hanger with three or two theatrical costumes hanging on it.
Just two or three pieces of furniture fill the room so full that it's difficult to turn around.
Nan Oliver Pei lit the kerosene lamp hanging on the wall, turned around and looked at Ethan Lu's unhappy expression, and said with his hands on his hips:
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