Of course, Little Fatty had gotten one thing wrong.
There were not that many truly screened candidates.
There were probably around fifty million.
One chosen from fifty million.
That far surpassed even the peerless beauties of ancient times, Xi Shi Diao Chan and the like.
They had only been selected from pools of tens or hundreds of thousands.
After all, this was the eighties.
They had already entered modern society.
Only through celebrity and model selections, through all kinds of screening, could they reach a selection ratio of fifty million.
There were women of practically every quality and every personality.
In short, they were screened one by one.
The most essential quality was still kindness.
The girl pursuing Zhao Han was surnamed Cheng. Her name was Cheng Lan.
Cheng Lan and Zhao San. They rhymed rather nicely.
One day, in a suburban park.
Zhao Han was strolling with a gentle and considerate woman.
The two were discussing the most popular modern poetry of the eighties.
In fact, when Zhao Han was in middle school and high school, she had also been extremely passionate about writing poetry.
Especially after she later moved into Wenren Sheng's home.
She began studying poetry again under Uncle Wenren Sheng.
Wenren De was very enthusiastic. Whenever he had time, he taught her how to compose poems, tirelessly ruining people.
Thus, she considered herself somewhat accomplished in poetry.
Her standards were relatively high.
She could write five-character and seven-character verse, quatrains and regulated verse.
For example, this poem seemed to have been written by her teacher.
She simply copied it directly.
Scholars, after all—stealing poems was not called stealing.
Could a scholar's affairs be called stealing? "From afar, the mountains look dark and gloomy; up close, the mountains rumble and boom."
"If you hear that rumbling boom,