Ever since he returned home, Zhao An's eyelid had not stopped twitching. The left eye meant wealth, they said, and the right, disaster.
He sat on the doorstep, hands suspended in the air as he mimed the motions of shaping clay, quickly losing himself in the practice. His work ethic was one reason he kept up the habit; another, more pressing one was that it helped keep the hunger pangs at bay. Whenever something troubled his mind, he would
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