The taxi stopped not far from the Cheney Residence.
The surroundings were still the same, the most common winter scene at the Cheney Residence.
Jasmine Yale dragged her suitcase, standing by the roadside.
Her face, underneath the scarf, was streaked with tears, and she continually wiped her face with her small hands.
It seemed she could never rid herself of the habit of crying.
Dragging her suitcase toward the grand entrance of the Cheney Residence, the whole street was silent, with only the sound of her suitcase wheels grinding against the ground.
The farther she walked, the quieter it became.
Jasmine's gaze fell on the grand entrance of the Cheney Residence ahead.
Where were the Cheney Residence's servants? The bodyguards? Why was no one visible?
Jasmine's steps quickened, and she nearly stumbled with her suitcase!
A few minutes later, she stood by the front door, the north wind blowing her scarf across her cheeks.
The tears dried in the wind, leaving only faint traces.
