Everyone knows not to provoke a sleeping lion; no one knows what a raging lion might do, and they are at least wise enough to understand this.
In the afternoon, Philip Shaw held a conference call in his office. By the time the meeting ended, it was already seven or eight in the evening.
It seemed as if the night had fallen suddenly. He walked over and opened the window; a gentle breeze swept in, carrying the fragrance of osmanthus blossoms from the garden.
As the weather grew warmer, the golden osmanthus he planted for Aldana Candi also bloomed with lively splendor, filling the garden with fragrance.
He felt the vexation locked in his heart rising with the fragrance, the pain and anger that had no outlet made his breathing a bit rapid. Philip Shaw reached for the pack of cigarettes on the desk, lit one awkwardly, and took a deep drag. The sharp scent of tobacco finally overcame the faint floral aroma, bringing him some relief.
