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你翻阅他的人生履历,追寻着他的足迹,感受着他的喜怒哀乐,并为着他的开心而开心,为着他的忧郁而忧郁。你以为这就是爱了。你读他的文字,欣赏着他的才气,喜欢听他的言谈欢笑,喜欢贴近他的感觉,甚至为着他愿意与你说话,而欣喜异常。你以为这就是爱了。你对自己说你是愿意做他的新娘的,愿意与他携手百年,愿意为他置一处温暖的家,让他从此不再漂泊,愿意为他生儿育女共享天伦。你以为这就是爱了。不可否认,你的确对他动情动心了。
You look through his life experience, follow his footsteps, feel his emotions, and for his happy and happy, depressed for his depression. You think this is love. You read his writing, admired his talent, likes to listen to his talk and laughter, like close to his feelings, and even for his willingness to speak to you, and happy exception. You think this is love. You said to yourself that you are willing to be his bride, willing to work with him for a hundred years, is willing to set him a warm home, so that he no longer wandering, willing to share his family with his family. You think this is love. Admittedly, you really tempted him.