To borrow or not to borrow, that is the question. It means taking the books off the shelves, taking off the covers, taking out the small items that are inside, dusting them off, and finally, getting them out of their homes.

In fact, lending books to others can be divided into two situations: the other party speaks, or they take the initiative to offer treasures.

Who wouldn't be afraid to see the eyes of the borrower looking for something, and the fingers that stop and go on the spine of the book? With a finger on a book, it is sentenced to death. This means that I may never see it again. My heart was suddenly tightened: No, don't borrow this book. Can't lend him or her, they never remember to pay it back, or, only God knows when they'll pay it back. Once, I dared to lie: "I'm sorry, this book was lent to me." "No, it's your book, and it has your signature on it." My face suddenly changed. Crimson, had to disarm and surrender. boom! I shot myself in the foot.

I pretended that nothing had happened, and took the book back first, took away a bunch of poor little secrets caught in the book, brushed off the sand and dust, shook off the broken dried petals, and there was a five-hundred-franc note. Falling down in circles, great! But the flannel book waist must have been lost. How do I destroy a text that is so viciously worded that it makes me faint? "Wait a minute, I'm going to excerpt an article." With bad luck, I had to sneak away, hide in the dark, and carefully dismember the last page of the book like a forensic autopsy. The pages of the book that recorded my grief and hatred were crumpled into a crumpled ball and thrown into the wastebasket. That night, I rescued it from the wastebasket and stuffed it elsewhere. But this is only a suspended sentence, after this night, I will definitely destroy it completely!

Generally speaking, my books have no "remembers" to be found, and I don't have to worry about revealing any secrets, so I can borrow them without dismembering them. But the end result is a loan without repayment. I won't buy a book with general feelings; if I have a soft spot, I'll buy a new one the next day. Xin Huan stood there, well-dressed, but how empty and powerless. Look, the new edition of "Praise of Shadows" has changed its cover, and I'm eagerly waiting for someone to read it again. But I turned my eyes away sadly, how I miss the vicissitudes and tired face of my old love!

Taking the initiative to donate treasure is even more inexplicable. Any misfortune caused by this masochistic behavior is self-inflicted. With the aura of generosity and the sense of superiority of the book, I blurted out: "Why, you haven't read "Black Blood"?"

When friends gather, the master's book will suffer. If you are not careful, the bookshelves are looted. When the guests are gone, and I'm clearing up my cups and saucers, I'm always troubled by the same question - it's not whether my friend will return the book, but whether he likes the book. If he likes it, he is likely to keep it for himself; if he doesn't like it... can he still be regarded as my friend? He didn't even like "Black Blood"! Time passed day by day, week by week, without any news. Well, it's this tome after all. I should lend him "OK Joe" or "The People's House."

To avoid unpleasantness, my memory graciously erased the book-borrowing thing. However, one night, at the house of a friend who lent my book, I heard him say to another guest, "Why, you haven't read "Black Blood"? That's a masterpiece!" Gratitude flooded into my heart, and I also teased it. My wishful thinking arose: "Ah! You still like this book. When are you going to give me back my copy?" "My God! Really, it's your book, but I borrowed it. For Mary."

To be honest, borrowing a copy of "Black Blood" is not a serious problem, because I still have two copies, and Mary may return it to me, or of course it may be sold and loaned out. Books flow like this.

To borrow or not to borrow, that is the question. It means taking the books off the shelves, taking off the covers, taking out the small items that are inside, dusting them off, and finally, getting them out of their homes.

In fact, lending books to others can be divided into two situations: the other party speaks, or they take the initiative to offer treasures.

Who wouldn't be afraid to see the eyes of the borrower looking for something, and the fingers that stop and go on the spine of the book? With a finger on a book, it is sentenced to death. This means that I may never see it again. My heart was suddenly tightened: No, don't borrow this book. Can't lend him or her, they never remember to pay it back, or, only God knows when they'll pay it back. Once, I dared to lie: "I'm sorry, this book was lent to me." "No, it's your book, and it has your signature on it." My face suddenly changed. Crimson, had to disarm and surrender. boom! I shot myself in the foot.

I pretended that nothing had happened, and took the book back first, took away a bunch of poor little secrets caught in the book, brushed off the sand and dust, shook off the broken dried petals, and there was a five-hundred-franc note. Falling down in circles, great! But the flannel book waist must have been lost. How do I destroy a text that is so viciously worded that it makes me faint? "Wait a minute, I'm going to excerpt an article." With bad luck, I had to sneak away, hide in the dark, and carefully dismember the last page of the book like a forensic autopsy. The pages of the book that recorded my grief and hatred were crumpled into a crumpled ball and thrown into the wastebasket. That night, I rescued it from the wastebasket and stuffed it elsewhere. But this is only a suspended sentence, after this night, I will definitely destroy it completely!

Generally speaking, my books have no "remembers" to be found, and I don't have to worry about revealing any secrets, so I can borrow them without dismembering them. But the end result is a loan without repayment. I won't buy a book with general feelings; if I have a soft spot, I'll buy a new one the next day. Xin Huan stood there, well-dressed, but how empty and powerless. Look, the new edition of "Praise of Shadows" has changed its cover, and I'm eagerly waiting for someone to read it again. But I turned my eyes away sadly, how I miss the vicissitudes and tired face of my old love!

Taking the initiative to donate treasure is even more inexplicable. Any misfortune caused by this masochistic behavior is self-inflicted. With the aura of generosity and the sense of superiority of the book, I blurted out: "Why, you haven't read "Black Blood"?"

When friends gather, the master's book will suffer. If you are not careful, the bookshelves are looted. When the guests are gone, and I'm clearing up my cups and saucers, I'm always troubled by the same question - it's not whether my friend will return the book, but whether he likes the book. If he likes it, he is likely to keep it for himself; if he doesn't like it... can he still be regarded as my friend? He didn't even like "Black Blood"! Time passed day by day, week by week, without any news. Well, it's this tome after all. I should lend him "OK Joe" or "The People's House."

To avoid unpleasantness, my memory graciously erased the book-borrowing thing. However, one night, at the house of a friend who lent my book, I heard him say to another guest, "Why, you haven't read "Black Blood"? That's a masterpiece!" Gratitude flooded into my heart, and I also teased it. My wishful thinking arose: "Ah! You still like this book. When are you going to give me back my copy?" "My God! Really, it's your book, but I borrowed it. For Mary."

To be honest, borrowing a copy of "Black Blood" is not a serious problem, because I still have two copies, and Mary may return it to me, or of course it may be sold and loaned out. Books flow like this.