Miss Bian Shu's prose poem fell to the ground, she was dazed and went to pick it up, her gaze landing on a man's slender, handsome fingers. He said, "Let me help you."
Miss Bian Shu never liked obscure and difficult poetry, nor did she enjoy the so-called poignant recitations of melancholy for spring and autumn.
She was simply using the prose poem book to block the sunlight.
But now, as she watched Ji Anshen picking up the prose poem and seriously browsing through it, sunlight fell on his scholarly face, complemented by rimless glasses that added an air of elegance.
He smiled, dimples appearing at the corners of his lips, exceptionally warm. He said, "Goethe? I like him very much too."
Miss Bian Shu didn't want to tell him, of course, that she didn't like these poems. In fact, she was just quietly watching him, her palms sweaty.
Reluctantly, she said, "Yes, his lyric poetry is wonderful."
