She huddled into her clothes, and carefully raised her red, icy hands to her mouth to warm them with her breath. She kept her stack of newspapers close to her chest, afraid that they would be soaked by the falling snow.
I'm not cold, she told herself, I'm not cold at all. Once she finished selling her newspapers, she would be able to buy a bowl of noodles in hot and sour soup for Song Yang. She felt that he deserved it because he had it so much harder; all she had to do was hawk newspapers on the street, but he had to work overtime at his office—long after his colleagues had already gone home—and ingratiate himself with his superiors just to get them to notice him and provide him with opportunities to further his career.
She hugged the newspapers in her arms closer to her chest. A layer of snow coated her long lashes; she smiled valiantly, even though her hands were already red and swollen from the freezing cold.
