And yet, even until now, she still fears the snow, a fear embedded deep within her soul. Even though she is less afraid now, she still can't find herself liking snow. For a farmer with a greenhouse, snow spells disaster.
The next morning, as soon as she woke up, she pulled open the curtains to check on the snow outside. To her shock, it had snowed all night; a thick layer had piled up, even covering the yard in white. On the vast expanse of snow were rows of messy paw prints, undoubtedly left by Conghua.
Qin Xiangnuan was relieved it was Saturday and there were no classes. Otherwise, she would have had to trudge through the snow and endure the cold to get to class, where there was no heating—utterly freezing.
It was very cold outside, she wasn't sure of the exact temperature, but it was freezing enough for the half cup of water on the windowsill to turn into ice. Yet, inside the house, it was very warm.
She touched the radiator on the side; it was still warm.
