As Mr. Song, the candidate scholar, was led away from the bustling streets and into a neighboring chilly alley, he saw Zhao Douan, half-reclined and listlessly leaning in the carriage.
The horse-drawn carriage was quietly parked on the stone-paved road.
The wind-blocking curtain of the carriage was flung open wide, and there in Zhao Douan's hand was still a few volumes of Mr. Zhengyang's annotated Confucian texts. Setting down the books, he revealed a smile:
"Mr. Song, Old Sir, how has your health been?"
Seeing the "little King Yan," the favorite of the empress, Mr. Song, around fifty years of age, trembled all over, and the passion in his heart chilled by half instantly.
It was as if during the depths of winter, one were stripped of their clothes and doused with a bucket of water over the head.
His lips parted, and he stuttered a bit, "Imperial Commissioner Zhao..."
Zhao Douan raised his hand and smiled, saying,
