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At that time, it was May.
Early summer in Brimfield, with cotton-like catkins floating in the air, the city adorned with large blooming roses lining the trellises along the streets.
During the weekend, Serene Lake was in its most leisurely and comfortable state. With water that offered views of mountains, willow branches brushed the shore, green shade filled the streets, the park was covered with lush foliage like canopies, and the water was a vibrant jade green.
A warm and cool early summer breeze blew in from outside the wooden windows, the bells on the door curtain jingling in the tranquil teahouse's private room.
Quentin Thorne was dressed in a mandarin-collared white shirt, black trousers, his long sleeves rolled up to his elbows, wearing an old-fashioned watch with a silver-white dial on his left wrist.
This outfit made him look like an ordinary middle-aged man.
He sat under the window, holding a white porcelain teacup, smiling kindly and warmly at Sienna Thornton.
