Empty beside her, the man had already left. Thinking about how he had tossed and turned until early morning and had gotten up so early, she felt he was a physically perverse madman.
She sat up, got out of bed, then bent over to pick up the torn nightgown from the floor, intending to wear it, but it was ripped and could no longer be worn.
She had no choice but to get another nightgown from the wardrobe, put it on, and then went into the bathroom to wash up.
Standing by the sink brushing her teeth, the slap mark on her face had already faded, leaving no trace. Her complexion, which had been as white as paper the night before, had now turned pale with a healthy blush, like a rose freshly moistened by morning dew.
It was evident she had been "nourished" by the man.
She bent down and splashed her cheeks with cold water. Why did she feel like she was just a… cliché woman?
