One question after another coerced Wang Qing into a state of collapse.
"There's... nothing... I... there's nothing..."
"You can keep saying 'nothing' and keep saying 'but'—I don't have time to entertain you," the old Yang bluntly interrupted; he had no patience for Wang Qing's whining.
Her pitiful demeanor only worked on those who loved her, not on him, an old man who'd seen his share of life and death.
He had agreed to stop by at Qin Xingzhi's request primarily to see if Wang Qing was ready to admit her mistakes.
Sometimes your attitude toward admitting fault is more important than whether you've actually made a mistake.
Who among us is saintly enough to never err? Making mistakes isn't scary, but what's truly frightening is evading and covering up those mistakes, and to exonerate oneself, persistently committing even more grievous ones.
Having spoken his piece, old Yang turned to leave, not planning to stay a moment longer.
