The maid held a paintbrush, intending to dab a red mole on a square inch of eyebrows like before. She signaled for a long time but couldn't. When I was a child, applying a stick was a memory. The red mole between her eyebrows, when she was growing up, it was a kind of cheerful, gorgeous makeup, but now sitting there, Dao Van's body was born on her own, like carved jade, naturally, there was a sadness. My heart is heavy with pain, like the purest white sheet of paper.