No one knew, except for her close neighbor Mrs. Hao, that Miss T’ang wrote poetry deep into the night. Mrs. Hao could hear the faintest musical murmur drifting to her open window. She would stand straining to hear the beautifully crafted phrases and her heart soared each and every time she heard her young neighbor reading her poetry aloud to herself.
Frequently, Hao Tai Tai stole across the alley bearing a pot of Jasmine tea. “Dear friend,” she would whisper, as she let herself in to T’ang Shiao Jye’s study, “would you mind to read me that last poem again; the one about flying free?”
