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... more nor less, precisely one thousand three hundred and fourteen.
1314.
Mingzhu turned her head to look at the man beside her.
The look of grievance and dissatisfaction on the man’s face had disappeared, replaced by doting and a smile.
"Happy Qixi Festival, wife."
For a moment, Mingzhu was at a loss for words, and her eyes became slightly moist.
She felt an inexplicable urge to cry, unsure whether it was out of embarrassment or being touched.
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