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Summary
Di Feisheng would get the same humid-warm smell of all people wrapped for sleep, a body at rest and accumulating the sweat of the night. He would sometimes detangle the glossy ends of his long hair with a carved wooden comb. He had a bit of the gentle herbal nonsense all noblemen carried in their sachets to smell good during the summer, which he tucked into his sleeve every morning. He parted his hair with his forefingers. He allowed all of this to be viewed.
It was, as Fang Duobing muttered to himself over and over, deeply weird.