"Little sister-in-law, it's no use not believing, this purse was indeed given to me by your brother," Qian Xiaoqing said in a soft and gentle tone, tugging back and forth with Yang Xiayun. "If you don't believe it, why not call him out and ask?"
"Who are you calling 'little sister-in-law'? Don't disgust me!" Yang Xiayun scoffed. "And ask? You must be dreaming if you think you can see my brother," she sneered.
"I'm talking to you, young lady, talking to you," Yang Chuxia finally saw the bride that Yangyang had mentioned.
Sure enough, she fit the definition of an ancient society's bride—a red dress enveloping her body, a big red flower pinned aside her head. It looked just like the attire of a bride.
Thick powder, bright red lips, a beauty mark drawn between her eyebrows. But at this moment, this old woman was playing the role of a matchmaker.
