Liang Xiaocui mustered all her courage and glared fiercely at Zhao Cheng, as if a multitude of past events, like surging waves, overwhelmed her—all laced with venom.
The venomous waves engulfed her entirely, daring not to reminisce about her fifteen-year ordeal, which was nothing but pain and despair.
She was only thirty-two this year, yet she looked over fifty.
She was sold here when she was only seventeen.
She had run away time and again, only to be dragged back and face beating after beating, until she became pregnant and, later, became utterly heartbroken.
This place was too remote; sometimes, it was as if no one cared about what happened here.
Even when someone took notice, the villagers were very united. They all shared the same surname, and most of their wives had been tricked or bought from outside.
Thinking of this, Liang Xiaocui ceased to heed her sons' cries and Zhao Cheng's curses.
