That is to say, if Ye Qichi cannot produce a poem today, she will become a laughingstock.
Xie Ruilin was delighted.
At this moment, she also put pen to paper and wrote down her own poem.
Her cursive script flowed like clouds and water.
The incense was about to burn out.
Xie Ruotong completed her own verse but ultimately found no opportunity, under the scrutiny of the public, to help Ye Qichi.
And it was also at the last moment.
Ye Qichi hurriedly scribbled her verse on the Xuan paper.
Her melancholy was not because she couldn't produce a poem.
After all, there were so many ancient poems, she could easily borrow one.
What annoyed her was, why she had to write it herself.
The way she wrote it would surely make people laugh their teeth off.
At last, she still wrote it.
