Mother Han left Yasongzhai, but did not go to Fanghuayuan where Xue Shanqiu lived, but turned to the old lady's Prajna Hall.
During her brief stay in the study just now, she keenly noticed that the flowery paper contained poems written by Master Yan.
Although the maids in charge of the Marquis's mansion could read some of the account books, they often only had a vague understanding of the artistic conception of the poems and essays.
Mother Han also knew the story of Matchmaker in the West Chamber in the opera. She was worried that these poems might contain inappropriate words and phrases, and would not damage the reputation of her young lady for no reason.
To be on the safe side, it would be better to let the old lady personally review it first.
In the Prajna Hall, Hong Yingrong was carefully pruning the branches and leaves of a pot of Crane Feather Camellia, while Nanny Zhao was standing beside her.
"The Third Young Master has studied hard for ten years, just waiting for this opportunity to bring honor to the family. If the old marquis knew about this, he would surely be pleased."
Hong Yingrong smiled easily: "The eldest and second sons are only from the Juren family. If Ji Yan can pass the exam and become a Jinshi this time, it will be worthy of the Marquis's teachings during his lifetime."
Mother Han then stepped into the courtyard, bowed, and narrated the whole story in a concise and concise manner.
"Oh?" Hong Yingrong put down the scissors, turned around and washed her hands in the basin beside her. She returned to the living room and sat down. Then she carefully flipped through the pages one by one. "How many of these are written by Master Yan?"
"Listening to the conversation between the two young masters, it seems that most of them were written by Young Master Yan..." Mother Han pondered.
Hong Yingrong's heart trembled slightly, and she unconsciously increased the strength in her hands, causing the flowery paper to wrinkle.
"Madam, is there something wrong?" Seeing her strange expression, Madam Zhao asked nervously.
Hong Yingrong remained silent, but just raised her other hand slightly to indicate that it was okay.
Her eyes wandered over the words on the flowery paper, and a buzzing sound suddenly rang in her mind. Those hellish scenes from the past appeared clearly before her again.
...Do you recognize these handwritings? These anti-poems were all written by the Third Young Master, and you still want to deny it?
...Mother, I didn’t, it wasn’t written by me.
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
