Mrs. Xiang stood on the stage, her complexion turning from haughty to ashen.
She had been unable to comprehend how the group of bumpkins in the audience could fail to appreciate her artwork—it was a downright insult to her creation.
The microphone at the bottom of the stage was passed to the last parent—Qibao's father.
Qibao's father rose to his feet, clearly agitated, inadvertently knocking a water bottle off the table with his left hand, which clattered to the ground.
"I, I..." Qibao's father's Adam's apple bobbed, as he glanced back and forth at the two sketches on the stage.
Finally, his gaze settled on the sketch that Lu Fengxuan had hastily doodled.
He swallowed again, his voice raspy, "I think that Mrs. Yu's painting skills are much superior, while Mrs. Xiang's painting is superficial and uses exaggerated colors, but it tends to overshadow the subject."
