Red and black clothes were piled together, forming a sharp little mound that completely filled the washbasin by the desk, giving off a pungent odor.
Occasionally, a few green-headed flies would drag their fat bellies and struggle amidst the folds of the little mound, and from time to time they'd start up their little trumpets, buzzing a few little tunes, making people even more irritated.
These clothes had large patches of brown and white stains, as if someone had spilled meat soup on them, or as if someone had rolled in a mud pit wearing these clothes, even there were many suspicious yellow marks—just by looking, one could no longer discern what material these clothes were made of.
Zheng Qing tried to poke at these dirty clothes with the stem of his feather pen.
The clothes felt hard, as if poking on cork.