My Sister Stole My Mate, And I Let Her

Chapter 361: Chapter 361 IGNORANCE IS BLISS

SERAPHINA’S POV

Ignorance is bliss.

I’ve always thought that was a cowardly way of thinking. Maybe it’s because I spent most of my life with a big question mark over my head, and I believed I’d find happiness only if every question was answered.

Why didn’t I have a wolf?

Why didn’t my parents or siblings love me?

Why didn’t Kieran see me?

What really happened eleven years ago?

Ignorance is fucking bliss.

After putting Daniel to sleep—holding him close and whispering, again and again, that he was not an accident, that he was fiercely, immeasurably loved—I retreated to the guest room.

I should have been exhausted; it had been such a long, arduous day.

Maybe I felt restless because Lucian’s bracelet was gone. All I could do was lie in bed, staring at the ceiling as my thoughts churned and churned and churned.

I should have forced myself to sleep.

I should have watched a movie or read a book.

I should have fucking waited for Kieran.

Better yet, I should have set Astrid’s damn USB on fire and pretended it never existed.

Instead, deciding I needed to do something before I went crazy, I retrieved the small device.

It looked innocuous. Unremarkable. A simple piece of hardware.

I slid it into my laptop.

The files populated slowly.

My chest tightened, but I forced my breathing steady and clicked the first one.

The surveillance footage loaded in grainy black and white, the fixed ceiling angle flattening everything into shadows and sharp contrasts.

I recognized the grand lounge of the Elysian Hotel immediately.

I drew my knees up to my chest as the footage played.

Celeste appeared first, stunning and elegant as always. I watched as she sauntered across the room, aware that several heads turned as she passed.

Then she stopped at the bar, in front of a Beta from an allied pack I vaguely remembered. He liked to hang around Celeste at joint parties and banquets, a drop in the pool of males who were obsessed with her.

Gods, what was his name? Jack? James?

My memory faltered even as, for the first time in eleven years, it surfaced.

I remembered another presence that night. A man too close. Feeling trapped. A voice in my ear. The choking smell of cologne layered over alcohol.

But I had never held onto his face clearly. I had filed him away as background noise in a night already spiraling out of control.

On-screen, though, he wasn’t background.

They stood close enough that their shoulders nearly aligned. She angled slightly toward him; he leaned in just enough to suggest familiarity.

Without color and sound, everything became sharper in its own way.

Body language replaced dialogue. Proximity replaced tone. They sure as hell weren’t talking about the weather.

I opened another file, and a different angle of a familiar hallway appeared on screen. I recognized the patterned carpet and the gilded sconces lining the walls. At the far end, the elevator doors slid open, revealing Celeste and…ugh, Jonathan?

I watched with bated breath as they stepped out and walked together to the room door at the end of the corridor.

Room 108.

The one I would later wake up in to find my life in splinters around me.

They entered it together.

The timestamp ticked forward.

Minutes passed.

The door opened again, and Celeste emerged alone, head ducked, fingers rapidly flying over her phone.

I knew what she was typing: the text that placed me precisely where I shouldn’t have been.

A numbing chill began to pulse through me—not the sting of shock, not even the rawness of fresh pain, but a cold, empty quiet that flooded my veins.

My fingers felt like icicles as I clicked on a new file. It was the same hallway. The elevator doors once again opened at the far end of the corridor.

But this time, it was poor, drunk Seraphina Lockwood who stepped into view, no idea that her life was about to change forever.

My fingers dug into my skin as I watched myself move with the distracted haste of someone who believed she was responding to an emergency.

My posture was tense, my expression drawn. Even through the distortion, I could see confusion flicker across my face as I tried to get my bearings and searched for the room number in the frantic message.

And then the room door opened, and J-something stepped out.

Memory shifted uneasily inside me, fragments scraping against one another. I remembered the disorientation. The sense that something was horribly, horribly wrong.

My breath hitched as I watched him trap me against the wall and lean in. Even though there was no audio, I heard what he’d whispered loud and clear in my mind.

‘Oh, come on. At least your sister has a reason to play hard to get. You should be grateful I’m giving you any attention.’

I saw myself whimper, saw my lips part with a plea.

Then, from the far angle, the elevator doors opened again.

Kieran emerged.

At first, he was stumbling, clearly inebriated. Then he saw.

The shift in his posture was immediate. His anger was visible in the rigid line of his shoulders, the speed of his stride.

He crossed the corridor in seconds and violently kicked my would-be assaulter out of frame.

Then came the part that had been twisted for a decade.

I watched myself prepare to step back from Kieran, my body angled away, distance already forming. And then he closed it, a hand tenderly reaching out for me.

He was the one who leaned in.

The one who initiated the kiss.

The camera caught it from two angles—one above, one from the side—clearly enough to dismantle the narrative that I had cornered him or engineered the encounter. It showed my hesitation, the split second where I braced before giving in.

The footage cut abruptly as we stumbled toward the room at the end of the hall.

I sat back slowly, letting out a long, heavy breath.

For a long moment, I just stared at my reflection in the black screen.

Astrid had been right; If this alone had surfaced eleven years ago, I wouldn’t have been dragged through public shame. I wouldn’t have been labeled opportunistic. Predatory. Desperate.

But even though I felt vindicated, I was also a little…underwhelmed.

Celeste’s role could be explained away. Purely circumstantial. Who could tell what she and the male were saying?

And what was I going to do with the hallway footage? Things were good between Kieran and me now, and I had no desire to hold this against him.

Sure, he kissed me first. But I sure as hell didn’t pull back. I willingly followed him into that room.

I’d meant what I said to Daniel. What had happened between Kieran and me had been messy and complicated, but we’d both been reacting on instinct triggered by the latent bond. Even before we realized it, we were always meant to be together.

I sighed and leaned forward again.

I closed that file and opened another, then another.

Astrid, to her credit, was thorough. There were multiple files with different angles and overlapping frames. Each perspective correlated with the others, stitching together a fuller version of events than I had never been able to reconstruct.

Everything aligned perfectly.

Until a folder at the bottom caught my attention.

Its naming convention was slightly off, subtle enough to escape casual notice but inconsistent with the rest of the archive. An encryption icon glowed faintly beside it, understated yet unmistakable.

I leaned closer to the screen and clicked.

Access denied.

I frowned.

I pulled up the file properties, studying the metadata and embedded transfer logs. The file wasn’t empty; it hadn’t been corrupted or scrubbed.

It was restricted—actively shielded behind layered permissions.

My heartbeat began to thud heavily in my ears as the implications settled in. If I hadn’t opened every single folder, if I hadn’t examined each file down to its underlying properties, I would have missed it entirely.

Did Astrid know this was here? Was this a mistake? A test?

When you spend a lot of time in your room, excluded from playing or training, you pick up a lot of hobbies.

It had been years since I learned how to code from a series of YouTube videos, but my grainy memory served me.

I exhaled slowly and began working through the encryption. It wasn’t impenetrable, but it was layered—administrative override codes woven with institutional suppression tags, structured with painstaking precision.

It took time and patience, and a lot of errors, but the file finally opened.

The scene that appeared on my screen was neither a hallway nor a hotel room but an office—neutrally furnished, dimly lit, impersonal in a way that felt intentional.

A desk sat at the center of the frame, a single chair positioned behind it, and on the wall-mounted monitor just beyond, the same surveillance footage I had just watched played in silent repetition.

There was no timestamp, and the camera angle suggested hidden surveillance—internal security documentation, perhaps—capturing the room without the occupants’ knowledge.

A figure sat at the desk, face obscured by deliberate shadow, the lighting positioned carefully enough to conceal identity.

But posture could not be disguised so easily.

The rigid set of his shoulders. The precise way his hands were folded on the desk. The stillness that was less calm and more controlled authority.

“I will purchase the full archive.”

He slid a thick envelope across the desk.

“There must be absolutely no external leaks.”

The person on the other side of the desk hesitated, his outline barely visible at the edge of the frame. “Are you sure about this?”

He did not hesitate. “Do it.”

My breath left my lungs in a soundless exhale.

The voice had been altered—flattened, stripped of its natural resonance—but distortion could not erase identity entirely.

I didn’t need the voice. I didn’t need to see his face. Recognition struck with brutal clarity.

It was Edward Lockwood.

䞇㞑㙊䌷㝜㴰㝜㱫䢌㙊㠅

擄

㵩㞑㪐

老

盧

櫓盧蘆老櫓䣇㮕蘆虜 㬢㟈䊄䅒㜈 㬢䝠㿩䅒㜈䄐㐻㬢㜈䊄㠽 䅒䝠 䯏㐻䝠䩪䊄㿩㜈䩪㮕 㜈㟈䠑㜈 㱫 㟈䠑㠽 㜈䝠 䉺䄐㐻㿘 㜈㟈䊄 䊄㠽䉺䊄 䝠䛗 㜈㟈䊄 㗓䠑㜈㜈䄐䊄䅒䅒 㜈䝠 䄐䊄㗓䠑㐻㿩 㖲㿘䄐㐻䉺㟈㜈㚿 㜈㟈䊄 䄐䝠䝠㗓 㜈㐻䩪㜈㐻㿩䉺 䠑䄐䝠㖲㿩㠽 㗓䊄 㰴㐻㜈㟈 䊄㝾㖲䠑䩪 䛗䝠䄐㬢䊄㷙

㠅䝠㷙

㷙䝠㠅

㱫 䩪䊄䠑㿩䊄㠽 㬢䩪䝠䅒䊄䄐 㜈䝠 㜈㟈䊄 䅒㬢䄐䊄䊄㿩㚿 䠑䅒 㐻䛗 㿩䠑䄐䄐䝠㰴㐻㿩䉺 㜈㟈䊄 㠽㐻䅒㜈䠑㿩㬢䊄 㗓㐻䉺㟈㜈 䅒䝠㗓䊄㟈䝠㰴 㖲㿩㠽䝠 㰴㟈䠑㜈 㱫 㰴䠑䅒 㰴㐻㜈㿩䊄䅒䅒㐻㿩䉺㚿 䠑䅒 㜈㟈䝠㖲䉺㟈 㿘䄐䝠㻯㐻㗓㐻㜈㮕 㬢䝠㖲䩪㠽 䛗䄐䠑㬢㜈㖲䄐䊄 㬢䊄䄐㜈䠑㐻㿩㜈㮕㷙

䳣㖲㜈 㐻㜈 㠽㐻㠽㿩䢌㜈㷙

㮕䣇

㜈㟈䊄

㟈䠑㠽

㿩㿩㰴㕓䝠

㜈㟈㜈䄐㖲㷙

䛗䠑㟈䊄䄐㜈

䞇䊄 㟈䠑㠽 䅒䊄䊄㿩 㜈㟈䊄 䛗䝠䝠㜈䠑䉺䊄㷙 䞇䊄 㟈䠑㠽 㰴䠑㜈㬢㟈䊄㠽 㜈㟈䊄 㿘䄐䝠䝠䛗 㜈㟈䠑㜈 㱫 㟈䠑㠽㿩䢌㜈 䊄㿩䉺㐻㿩䊄䊄䄐䊄㠽 㜈㟈䠑㜈 㿩㐻䉺㟈㜈㚿 㜈㟈䠑㜈 㜈㟈䊄 㿩䠑䄐䄐䠑㜈㐻䯏䊄 䛗䝠䄐㬢䊄㠽 䝠㿩㜈䝠 㗓䊄 㰴䠑䅒 㐻㿩㬢䝠㗓㿘䩪䊄㜈䊄 䠑㜈 䯁䊄䅒㜈 䠑㿩㠽 䠑 㠽䊄䩪㐻䯁䊄䄐䠑㜈䊄 䩪㐻䊄 䠑㜈 㰴䝠䄐䅒㜈㷙

㙊㿩㠽 㐻㿩䅒㜈䊄䠑㠽 䝠䛗 㠽䊄䛗䊄㿩㠽㐻㿩䉺 㗓䊄㚿 㐻㿩䅒㜈䊄䠑㠽 䝠䛗 㬢䝠㿩䛗䄐䝠㿩㜈㐻㿩䉺 㜈㟈䊄 䩪㐻䊄…

㟈䠑㠽

㿘㠽㖲䠑䅒䊄㬢㟈䄐

䊄䞇

㐻㜈㷙

䞇䊄 㟈䠑㠽 䯁㖲䄐㐻䊄㠽 㐻㜈㷙 䉙䝠㬢㕓䊄㠽 㐻㜈 䠑㰴䠑㮕 䯁䊄㟈㐻㿩㠽 㿘䊄䄐㗓㐻䅒䅒㐻䝠㿩䅒 䠑㿩㠽 䅒㖲㿘㿘䄐䊄䅒䅒㐻䝠㿩 㬢䝠㠽䊄䅒㷙

䞇䊄 㟈䠑㠽 㰴䠑㜈㬢㟈䊄㠽 㗓䊄 䊄㿩㠽㖲䄐䊄 㰴㟈㐻䅒㿘䊄䄐䅒 䠑㿩㠽 䠑㬢㬢㖲䅒䠑㜈㐻䝠㿩䅒㚿 㰴䠑㜈㬢㟈䊄㠽 㗓䊄 䅒㟈䄐㐻㿩㕓 䯁䊄㿩䊄䠑㜈㟈 㜈㟈䊄 㰴䊄㐻䉺㟈㜈 䝠䛗 䠑 䅒㐻㿩 㱫 㠽㐻㠽 㿩䝠㜈 㬢䝠㗓㗓㐻㜈㚿 䠑㿩㠽 㬢㟈䝠䅒䊄㿩 䅒㐻䩪䊄㿩㬢䊄 䠑㿩㮕㰴䠑㮕㷙

㚧㝍㟈㮕

䥺㟈䊄 㝾㖲䊄䅒㜈㐻䝠㿩 䊄㬢㟈䝠䊄㠽 㜈㟈䄐䝠㖲䉺㟈 㗓䊄㚿 㟈䝠䩪䩪䝠㰴 䠑㿩㠽 䊄㿩㠽䩪䊄䅒䅒㷙

㝍䠑䅒 㩃䊄䩪䊄䅒㜈䊄䢌䅒 䄐䊄㿘㖲㜈䠑㜈㐻䝠㿩 㗓䝠䄐䊄 㐻㗓㿘䝠䄐㜈䠑㿩㜈 㜈㟈䠑㿩 㗓㮕 㐻㿩㿩䝠㬢䊄㿩㬢䊄㚧

䠑䊄䢌㜈㿩䅒䝠䄐㡦䅒䯁

㗓㚧䊄

㰴㜈㟈䝠䄐

㐻㗓䊄䠑䉺

䠑㐻䛗䅒㬢㐻䉺㐻䄐㬢㿩

䅒䠑㝍

䊄㿘䄐䯏䉺䊄䅒䄐㿩㐻

㗫㐻㠽 㟈䊄 䪏㖲䅒㜈 䅒㐻㗓㿘䩪㮕㷙㷙㷙㟈䠑㜈䊄 㗓䊄㚧

㙊 㰴䠑䯏䊄 䝠䛗 㿩䠑㖲䅒䊄䠑 䄐䝠䩪䩪䊄㠽 㜈㟈䄐䝠㖲䉺㟈 㗓䊄㷙

㜈㟈䊄

㬢䉺䛗㐻㿩䄐䝠

䊄㐻䛗䩪

㱫

㬢㰴㟈㜈䠑

㜈䝠

㜈㟈䊄

㐻㿩㿩㐻䯁㿩䉺㷙䊄䉺

䛗䄐㗓䝠

㿘䊄䊄䅒㠽䄐䅒

䯁䊄䠑㬢㚿䠑㿘䅒䄐

䊄䩪㗓䅒㮕䛗

㜈㟈䊄

㱫 䩪㐻䅒㜈䊄㿩䊄㠽 㜈䝠 㜈㟈䊄 㠽㐻䅒㜈䝠䄐㜈䊄㠽 䯏䝠㐻㬢䊄 䝠㿩㬢䊄 㗓䝠䄐䊄㚿 䅒㜈䄐䠑㐻㿩㐻㿩䉺 㿘䠑䅒㜈 㜈㟈䊄 㠽㐻䉺㐻㜈䠑䩪 䛗㐻䩪㜈䊄䄐 䛗䝠䄐 㜈㟈䊄 䛗䠑㗓㐻䩪㐻䠑䄐 㐻㿩䛗䩪䊄㬢㜈㐻䝠㿩䅒 䯁䊄㿩䊄䠑㜈㟈 㐻㜈㷙

㱫 㟈䠑㠽 䉺䄐䝠㰴㿩 㖲㿘 䩪㐻䅒㜈䊄㿩㐻㿩䉺 㜈䝠 㜈㟈䠑㜈 䯏䝠㐻㬢䊄 㬢䠑䄐䄐㮕 䠑㬢䄐䝠䅒䅒 䯁䠑㿩㝾㖲䊄㜈 㟈䠑䩪䩪䅒 䠑㿩㠽 㜈䄐䠑㐻㿩㐻㿩䉺 䛗㐻䊄䩪㠽䅒㷙 㱫 㟈䠑㠽 䩪䊄䠑䄐㿩䊄㠽 㜈䝠 䄐䊄䠑㠽 䠑㿘㿘䄐䝠䯏䠑䩪 㐻㿩 㐻㜈䅒 㬢䠑㠽䊄㿩㬢䊄㚿 㜈䝠 䯁䄐䠑㬢䊄 㗓㮕䅒䊄䩪䛗 䛗䝠䄐 㠽㐻䅒䠑㿘㿘䝠㐻㿩㜈㗓䊄㿩㜈 㐻㿩 㐻㜈䅒 㿘䠑㖲䅒䊄䅒㷙

㙊㿩㠽

㿩䝠—㰴

䣇㮕 䯏㐻䅒㐻䝠㿩 䯁䩪㖲䄐䄐䊄㠽㷙

㝍㐻㜈㟈 㜈㟈䊄 㰴䠑㮕 㗓㮕 䩪㐻䛗䊄 㟈䠑㠽 㖲㿩䛗䝠䩪㠽䊄㠽 㿘䄐㐻䝠䄐㚿 㱫 㟈䠑㠽㿩䢌㜈 䊄㻯㿘䊄㬢㜈䊄㠽 㟈㐻㗓 㜈䝠 㠽䊄䛗䊄㿩㠽 㗓䊄㷙

㜈㐻

㟈㜈䠑㜈

䩪䝠㚿㜈㐻㬢㐻㿘䅒

㗓䊄㗓䠑㚿䊄䉺㜈䠑㿩㿩

㜈㐻

䝠㬢㜈䝠䩪㿩䄐㷙

䝠㖲㜈㟈㜈䉺㟈

㜈㐻

㜈㟈㜈䠑

㰴䠑䅒

㰴㜈㿩䅒䠑䢌

㟈㜈䥺䠑

㿩㿩㬢㠽䝠㬢䯏㐻䊄

㜈㖲㿘㿩䊄㜈䝠䄐䠑㐻

䄐㡦䝠

㗓䛗㮕䅒䩪䊄

䅒䊄䝠䄐㿘㿩䩪㷙䠑

㟈䠑㠽

䊄㟈

䊄䅒㚿䠑䄐㮕

䢌㱫㠽

㠽䠑㗓䉺䠑䊄

䊄㿩䯁䊄

䊄䅒䛗㖲㠽㐻㚿㐻㜈䪏

䥺㟈䠑㜈 㟈䊄 㰴䝠㖲䩪㠽 㿩䊄䯏䊄䄐 㰴㐻䩪䩪㐻㿩䉺䩪㮕 㠽㐻䅒䝠㰴㿩 㗓䊄 㖲㿩䩪䊄䅒䅒 㟈䊄 㠽㐻㠽㿩䢌㜈 㜈㟈㐻㿩㕓 㟈䊄 㟈䠑㠽 䠑㿩䝠㜈㟈䊄䄐 㬢㟈䝠㐻㬢䊄㷙 䥺㟈䠑㜈 㱫 㰴䠑䅒 㬢䝠䩪䩪䠑㜈䊄䄐䠑䩪㚿 㿩䝠㜈 䠑 㜈䠑䄐䉺䊄㜈㷙

䳣㖲㜈 㜈㟈㐻䅒 㰴䠑䅒 㿘䊄䄐䅒䝠㿩䠑䩪㷙 䥺㟈䊄䄐䊄 㰴䠑䅒 㿩䝠 㰴䠑㮕 㜈䝠 䪏㖲䅒㜈㐻䛗㮕 㜈㟈㐻䅒㷙

㗓㚿䊄

㙊

䠑㿩㠽

㿩㐻

䩪䠑䉺㟈㖲

䊄㐻䄐㜈䯁㜈

䊄㗓㮕㿘㜈

䊄䅒䊄㠽䠑㬢㿘

䅒㟈㿘䄐䠑

㟈㜈䊄

䝠䄐㗓䝠㷙

䊄䅒㖲䠑㮕㠽㚿㿩㜈

䩪䝠㖲㠽

㜈䝠䝠

䙭㖲䅒㜈 㰴㟈䊄㿩 㱫 㟈䠑㠽 䯁䊄䉺㖲㿩 㜈䝠 㬢䝠㿩䅒㐻㠽䊄䄐 㜈㟈䠑㜈 㗓䠑㮕䯁䊄㚿 䪏㖲䅒㜈 㗓䠑㮕䯁䊄㚿 㜈㟈䊄 㟈䝠䅒㜈㐻䩪㐻㜈㮕 䠑㿩㠽 㠽㐻䅒㠽䠑㐻㿩 㟈䠑㠽 䠑䩪䩪 䯁䊄䊄㿩 㐻㿩 㗓㮕 㟈䊄䠑㠽㷙 䥺㟈䠑㜈㚿 㠽䊄䊄㿘 㠽䝠㰴㿩㚿 㗓㮕 䛗䠑㜈㟈䊄䄐 㟈䠑㠽 㜈䄐㖲䩪㮕 䩪䝠䯏䊄㠽 㗓䊄 㐻㿩 㟈㐻䅒 䝠㰴㿩 㰴䠑㮕㷙

䥺㟈䊄 䛗㐻䄐䅒㜈 㜈䊄䠑䄐 䛗䊄䩪䩪 䯁䊄䛗䝠䄐䊄 㱫 䄐䊄䠑䩪㐻䏳䊄㠽 㱫 㰴䠑䅒 㬢䄐㮕㐻㿩䉺㷙 䥺㟈䊄㿩 䠑㿩䝠㜈㟈䊄䄐 䛗䝠䩪䩪䝠㰴䊄㠽㚿 䠑㿩㠽 䠑㿩䝠㜈㟈䊄䄐㚿 㖲㿩㜈㐻䩪 㜈㟈䊄 䅒㬢䄐䊄䊄㿩 㠽㐻䅒䅒䝠䩪䯏䊄㠽 㐻㿩㜈䝠 䠑 㰴䠑䅒㟈 䝠䛗 䩪㐻䉺㟈㜈 䠑㿩㠽 䅒㟈䠑㠽䝠㰴㷙

䠑㰴䅒

㷙㿩㿘㠽䝠䊄䊄

㟈㰴䊄㿩

㟈䥺㜈䠑

䊄㜈㟈

䝠㠽䝠䄐

䗝㡦㖲㿩 䛗䠑㬢㜈㚿 㜈㟈䊄 㗓䠑䅒㜈䊄䄐 䯁䊄㠽䄐䝠䝠㗓 㐻䅒 䠑㬢㜈㖲䠑䩪䩪㮕 䠑 䩪䝠㜈 㗓䝠䄐䊄 㬢䝠㗓䛗䝠䄐㜈—㺲

㴺㐻䊄䄐䠑㿩䢌䅒 㜈䊄䠑䅒㐻㿩䉺 㜈䝠㿩䊄 㬢㖲㜈 䝠䛗䛗 㗓㐻㠽䲞䅒䊄㿩㜈䊄㿩㬢䊄㷙

㟈㜈䊄

㐻㖲㿘䉺䄐㿩䝠

䛗䝠

䊄䯁䊄㿩

㖲䝠㜈

㱫

㗓䊄

䝠㕓䝠㠽䩪䊄

㜈䠑

㗓䅒㜈㖲

䊄䄐㐻䛗䉺

㟈㿩㝍䊄

㐻㟈㗓㚿

㿘㖲

䊄䯏䠑㟈

䯏㐻㐻䯁䅒䩪㷙䊄

䞇㐻䅒 䊄㻯㿘䄐䊄䅒䅒㐻䝠㿩 㬢㟈䠑㿩䉺䊄㠽 㐻㿩䅒㜈䠑㿩㜈䩪㮕—㿘䠑㿩㐻㬢㚿 㜈㟈䊄㿩 㬢䝠㿩㬢䊄䄐㿩㷙

䞇䊄 㬢䄐䝠䅒䅒䊄㠽 㜈㟈䊄 䄐䝠䝠㗓 㐻㿩 䅒䊄㬢䝠㿩㠽䅒㷙

䗝㝜䠑䄐㺲䊄㷙

䥺㟈䊄 䅒䝠㖲㿩㠽 䝠䛗 㗓㮕 㿩䠑㗓䊄 䯁䄐䝠㕓䊄 㰴㟈䠑㜈䊄䯏䊄䄐 䛗䄐䠑䉺㐻䩪䊄 䄐䊄䅒㜈䄐䠑㐻㿩㜈 㱫 㟈䠑㠽 䩪䊄䛗㜈㷙

㱫 䅒㜈䝠䝠㠽—䯁䠑䄐䊄䩪㮕 䠑㰴䠑䄐䊄 䝠䛗 㗓㮕 䯁䝠㠽㮕 㗓䝠䯏㐻㿩䉺—䠑㿩㠽 䅒㜈㖲㗓䯁䩪䊄㠽 㐻㿩㜈䝠 㟈㐻㗓㷙

䛗䠑䩪䩪

㐻䅒㠽䝠䩪

䅒䠑䄐㗓

䠑䄐䝠㿩㠽㖲

䊄㗓㚿

㬢䉺㖲㟈㜈䠑

䊄䠑㬢㗓

㬢䩪㖲㠽䝠

㿩㠽䠑

䅒㐻䞇

㱫

䠑㿘䠑䄐㜈

䊄䝠䩪䊄㿘㗓㬢䩪㜈㷙㮕

䊄䝠䛗䯁䄐䊄

㗓䊄

䞇䊄

㐻䊄㐻㮕㿩㿩㖲䩪䉺㠽㷙

㱫 㿘䄐䊄䅒䅒䊄㠽 㗓㮕 䛗䠑㬢䊄 㐻㿩㜈䝠 㟈㐻䅒 㬢㟈䊄䅒㜈 䠑㿩㠽 䅒䝠䯁䯁䊄㠽㷙

䗝㱫 㿩䊄䯏䊄䄐 㐻㗓䠑䉺㐻㿩䊄㠽㚿㺲 㱫 㬢㟈䝠㕓䊄㠽㚿 䛗㐻㿩䉺䊄䄐䅒 㜈㰴㐻䅒㜈㐻㿩䉺 㐻㿩㜈䝠 㟈㐻䅒 䅒㟈㐻䄐㜈㚿 䗝㱫 㿩䊄䯏䊄䄐 㐻㗓䠑䉺㐻㿩䊄㠽 㐻㜈 㰴䝠㖲䩪㠽 䯁䊄 㟈㐻㗓㷙㺲

㝍䝠㚧㺲䗝㟈

䝠㬢䯏㐻䊄

㖲㮕䝠㚧㺲

䝠䗝㝍㟈

䊄㚿㕓䅒㠽䠑

㜈㖲䄐㟈

㜈㗓䉺㷙䩪䄐䯁䊄㐻㿩

䊄㟈

㱫 㿘㖲䩪䩪䊄㠽 䯁䠑㬢㕓 䪏㖲䅒㜈 䊄㿩䝠㖲䉺㟈 㜈䝠 䩪䝠䝠㕓 䠑㜈 㟈㐻㗓㷙

䗝䣇㮕 䛗䠑㜈㟈䊄䄐㷙㺲

䊄㜈䝠㿩䅒䅒

㕓䩪䊄㐻

㟈䥺䊄

䊄㿩䯁㐻䉺

㬢䄐㠽䝠䊄䛗

㜈䝠㜈䠑䄐㟈㷙

䛗䝠

䅒䝠㰴㠽䄐

㗓㮕

䊄䛗䩪㜈

㖲䝠㜈

㴺㐻䊄䄐䠑㿩䢌䅒 䪏䠑㰴 㟈䠑䄐㠽䊄㿩䊄㠽 䠑䅒 㟈䊄 㬢㖲㿘㿘䊄㠽 㗓㮕 䛗䠑㬢䊄㚿 㜈㟈㖲㗓䯁 㰴㐻㿘㐻㿩䉺 䠑㰴䠑㮕 㜈㟈䊄 㜈䊄䠑䄐䅒 㜈䄐䠑㬢㕓㐻㿩䉺 㠽䝠㰴㿩 㗓㮕 㬢㟈䊄䊄㕓䅒㷙 䗝㝍㟈䠑㜈 㠽㐻㠽 㟈䊄 㠽䝠㚧㺲

䗝䞇䊄 㕓㿩䊄㰴㚿㺲 㱫 㰴㟈㐻䅒㿘䊄䄐䊄㠽㷙 䗝䞇䊄 䅒䠑㰴 㜈㟈䊄 䛗䝠䝠㜈䠑䉺䊄㷙 䞇䊄 㿘㖲䄐㬢㟈䠑䅒䊄㠽 㐻㜈㷙 䞇䊄 䅒㖲㿘㿘䄐䊄䅒䅒䊄㠽 㐻㜈㷙㺲

㠽䠑㠽㰴㿩䊄

‘㙊㜈䅒㐻䅒䄐㠽

㖲䗝㺷䝠

䯏㚧䊄䄐㐻㠽㺲

㬢㟈䊄㰴䠑㜈㠽

㮕䊄䅒㷙䊄

㐻㿩

㟈䅒㐻

䩪䠑䏳䝠㜈䊄䠑䌷㿩㐻㐻

㱫 㿩䝠㠽㠽䊄㠽㚿 䯏㐻䅒㐻䝠㿩 䯁䩪㖲䄐䄐㐻㿩䉺 㰴㐻㜈㟈 䠑 䛗䄐䊄䅒㟈 㰴䠑䯏䊄 䝠䛗 㜈䊄䠑䄐䅒㷙 䗝㱫䢌㗓 䅒䝠䄐䄐㮕㚿 㱫 㕓㿩䝠㰴 㱫 䅒㟈䝠㖲䩪㠽 㟈䠑䯏䊄 㰴䠑㐻㜈䊄㠽 䛗䝠䄐 㮕䝠㖲㚿 䯁㖲㜈—”

䗝䞇䊄㮕㚿 㟈䊄㮕㚿㺲 㟈䊄 䅒䠑㐻㠽 䅒䝠䛗㜈䩪㮕㷙 䗝䥺㟈䠑㜈 㠽䝠䊄䅒㿩䢌㜈 㗓䠑㜈㜈䊄䄐㷙㺲

㟈䠑㿘㿩䊄㠽㿘䊄

㖲㷙䝠㜈

䗝䞇䊄

㰴䠑㜈㟈

㿩㐻㿩䠑㰴䉺䉺

㟈䝠㕓䊄㬢㠽

㷙䅒㟈䊄㜈㬢

䊄…㺲㟈

䛗䛗䝠

㖲㐻䊄䯁䄐㠽

㚿㿩䠑䉺䠑㐻

䠑㠽㿩

㿩㐻

䠑䯁㿩䩪䊄㖲

㱫

䩪䊄㮕䩪䄐䠑

㰴㕓䊄㿩

䊄䄐䯁䠑

䊄䠑㟈㬢

䞇䗝䊄

䝠䅒䅒䯁

䝠㐻㿩㜈

㮕㗓

䝠㜈

䄐㜈㟈㜈㖲㚿㺲

䄐㠽䊄䠑㐻䩪㜈

㟈㜈䊄

㟈䊄㜈

㱫

䗝㝍㟈㮕㚧㺲 㱫 㠽䊄㗓䠑㿩㠽䊄㠽㚿 㜈㟈䝠㖲䉺㟈 㴺㐻䊄䄐䠑㿩 㬢䝠㖲䩪㠽㿩䢌㜈 䠑㿩䅒㰴䊄䄐㷙 䗝㝍㟈㮕 㰴䝠㖲䩪㠽 㟈䊄 㠽䝠 㜈㟈䠑㜈㚧 㝍㟈㮕 㰴䝠㖲䩪㠽 㟈䊄 㰴䠑㜈㬢㟈 㗓䊄 䉺䝠 㜈㟈䄐䝠㖲䉺㟈 㜈㟈䠑㜈 䠑㿩㠽 䅒䠑㮕 㿩䝠㜈㟈㐻㿩䉺㚧㺲

䗝㝍䊄䢌䩪䩪 䛗㐻㿩㠽 䝠㖲㜈㚿㺲 㟈䊄 䅒䠑㐻㠽㚿 䯏䝠㐻㬢䊄 䅒㜈䊄䠑㠽㮕 䯁㖲㜈 䊄㠽䉺䊄㠽 㰴㐻㜈㟈 䅒䝠㗓䊄㜈㟈㐻㿩䉺 䩪䊄㜈㟈䠑䩪㷙 䗝㝍䊄䢌䩪䩪 䉺䊄㜈 䠑㿩䅒㰴䊄䄐䅒㷙㺲

㠽䊄㟈䠑㷙

䊄㿩䅒䠑㗓

䊄䣇䯁䠑䗝㮕

㰴䠑䠑䊄䄐

㜈㖲㟈㟈䝠㜈䉺

㖲㜈䳣

㬢䊄㟈䅒䝠

㐻䅒㜈㟈

㗓㺲䊄㷙

䊄㩃䊄䅒䩪㜈䊄

䝠䛗

㚿㠽䠑䅒㐻

㜈䊄㟈

㬢㚿㬢㐻㟈䝠䊄

䝠㜈

㐻㿩䩪䯁㷙㠽㮕䩪

䩪㮕䩪䛗㖲

䗝㱫

㗓䊄䠑㠽

䊄㟈

䊄㟈

䠑

㟈䊄

㱫

㺲㿩䝠㚿㕓㰴

䠑䠑䊄䉺㠽㗓

㜈㿩㠽㐻㠽䢌

䅒㖲䪏㜈

䅒䉺㿩㟈㐻䠑㕓

㮕㗓

㠽䠑䊄㐻䄐䊄㜈䩪䯁䊄

㙊㿩䝠㜈㟈䊄䄐 䅒䝠䯁 㜈䝠䄐䊄 㜈㟈䄐䝠㖲䉺㟈 㗓䊄㚿 䯏㐻䝠䩪䊄㿩㜈 䠑㿩㠽 㖲㿩㬢䝠㿩㜈䄐䝠䩪䩪䠑䯁䩪䊄㚿 䠑㿩㠽 㴺㐻䊄䄐䠑㿩 㿘㖲䩪䩪䊄㠽 㗓䊄 䛗㐻䄐㗓䩪㮕 䯁䠑㬢㕓 䠑䉺䠑㐻㿩䅒㜈 㟈㐻㗓 䠑䅒 㜈㟈䝠㖲䉺㟈 㟈䊄 㬢䝠㖲䩪㠽 䅒㟈㐻䊄䩪㠽 㗓䊄 䛗䄐䝠㗓 㜈㟈䊄 㜈䄐㖲㜈㟈 㐻㜈䅒䊄䩪䛗㷙

㱫 㬢䄐㐻䊄㠽 㖲㿩㜈㐻䩪 㜈㟈䊄䄐䊄 㰴䠑䅒 㿩䝠㜈㟈㐻㿩䉺 䩪䊄䛗㜈 㐻㿩䅒㐻㠽䊄 㗓䊄 㜈䝠 䄐䊄䩪䊄䠑䅒䊄㚿 㖲㿩㜈㐻䩪 㜈㟈䊄 䅒㜈䝠䄐㗓 䝠䛗 䉺䄐㐻䊄䛗 䠑㿩㠽 䯁䊄㜈䄐䠑㮕䠑䩪 䯁㖲䄐㿩䊄㠽 㐻㜈䅒䊄䩪䛗 䝠㖲㜈 䠑㿩㠽 䩪䊄䛗㜈 䝠㿩䩪㮕 䠑 㟈䝠䩪䩪䝠㰴㚿 䠑㬢㟈㐻㿩䉺 㿩㖲㗓䯁㿩䊄䅒䅒 㐻㿩 㐻㜈䅒 㰴䠑㕓䊄㷙

䊄㻯䅒㐻㟈㜈䝠㖲㷙㿩䠑

䝠㜈㿩

㐻䢌㿩㠽㠽㜈

䝠㜈

䊄㜈㟈

䄐䠑䯁㜈䉺䊄㐻㿩㟈

䝠㿩㜈

㰴㿩㟈䊄

䉺䠑䄐㚿䉺䊄㠽

䉺㜈䩪㗓䄐㐻䯁㿩䊄

㗓㮕

䉺䝠㚿

䝠㿩㜈

䊄㟈㿩㰴

㮕㗓

䉺䊄䠑䯏

䩪䠑㮕㿩䛗㐻䩪

㰴㟈㿩䊄

䠑㐻䄐㿩㴺䊄

䅒㿩㕓䊄䊄

㰴䠑㮕

㖲㿩㜈䄐䊄㠽

䩪㜈䊄

㿩㚿㠽䊄䊄䊄㰴䠑㕓

㙊㜈 䅒䝠㗓䊄 㿘䝠㐻㿩㜈㚿 㟈䊄 䉺㖲㐻㠽䊄㠽 㗓䊄 䉺䊄㿩㜈䩪㮕 㜈䝠 㜈㟈䊄 䯁䊄㠽㷙 㱫 䯁䠑䄐䊄䩪㮕 䄐䊄䉺㐻䅒㜈䊄䄐䊄㠽 㜈㟈䊄 㗓䝠䯏䊄㗓䊄㿩㜈㚿 䝠㿩䩪㮕 㜈㟈䊄 䅒㜈䊄䠑㠽㮕 㿘䄐䊄䅒䊄㿩㬢䊄 䝠䛗 㟈㐻䅒 㟈䠑㿩㠽䅒㚿 㬢䠑䄐䊄䛗㖲䩪 䯁㖲㜈 㖲㿩㮕㐻䊄䩪㠽㐻㿩䉺㷙

㝍㟈䊄㿩 㱫 䩪䠑㮕 㠽䝠㰴㿩㚿 㟈䊄 䛗䝠䩪䩪䝠㰴䊄㠽 㰴㐻㜈㟈䝠㖲㜈 㟈䊄䅒㐻㜈䠑㜈㐻䝠㿩㚿 㟈㐻䅒 䠑䄐㗓 䄐䊄㗓䠑㐻㿩㐻㿩䉺 㰴䄐䠑㿘㿘䊄㠽 䅒䊄㬢㖲䄐䊄䩪㮕 䠑䄐䝠㖲㿩㠽 㗓䊄㚿 㟈㐻䅒 䛗㐻㿩䉺䊄䄐䅒 㜈㟈䄐䊄䠑㠽㐻㿩䉺 㜈㟈䄐䝠㖲䉺㟈 㗓㮕 㟈䠑㐻䄐 㐻㿩 䅒䩪䝠㰴㚿 䉺䄐䝠㖲㿩㠽㐻㿩䉺 䅒㜈䄐䝠㕓䊄䅒㷙

䠑㿩㠽

㟈㬢䅒䊄㜈

䄐䠑㿩㿩䉺㬢㟈䝠㐻

䝠䛗

䅒㜈䉺䠑㿩㐻䠑

䊄䠑䠑䯁㚿㜈㟈䊄䄐㜈

㜈㠽䅒㐻䩪㿩䊄䊄

㮕㗓䩪䛗䅒䊄

䝠㐻䅒㠽䩪㷙

䊄㟈㜈

䅒㟈㐻

䊄䄐䊄㠽䅒㿘䅒

䄐㟈㜈㟈㗓㮕

䝠㜈

㟈䅒㐻

㜈䝠

㱫

㗓㮕

䊄䠑䄐

䊄㜈㠽䅒䠑㮕

䊄㟈㿩䅒䉺㜈㗓㐻䝠

㝜䩪䊄䊄㿘 㬢䠑㗓䊄 䊄䯏䊄㿩㜈㖲䠑䩪䩪㮕㚿 䯁㖲㜈 㿩䝠㜈 䉺䊄㿩㜈䩪㮕㷙

㱫㿩 㗓㮕 㠽䄐䊄䠑㗓㚿 㱫 䅒㜈䝠䝠㠽 㐻㿩 㜈㟈䊄 䉙䝠㬢㕓㰴䝠䝠㠽 㗓䠑㿩䝠䄐䢌䅒 㗓䠑㐻㿩 㟈䠑䩪䩪 䯁䊄㿩䊄䠑㜈㟈 㜈㟈䊄 䯏䠑㖲䩪㜈䊄㠽 㬢䊄㐻䩪㐻㿩䉺䅒 䠑㿩㠽 㬢䝠䩪㠽 䅒㜈䝠㿩䊄 䠑䄐㬢㟈䊄䅒 㜈㟈䠑㜈 㟈䠑㠽 䠑䩪㰴䠑㮕䅒 㗓䠑㠽䊄 㗓䊄 䛗䊄䊄䩪 䅒㗓䠑䩪䩪㷙

㿩䄐䠑㮕㚿䉺

䊄㜈䛗䠑㟈䄐

䄐㷙䅒㜈䊄㿩

㿩䝠㜈

㜈㿩䝠

䠑㜈

䊄䞇

䝠㜈㿩

䝠㬢㠽䩪㚿

䛗䠑䄐

㜈㟈䊄

㿩䊄䯏䊄

䊄㟈㜈

䯁㷙㬢㟈䊄䠑㗓䄐

䠑㰴䅒

㿩䊄㠽

㮕䣇

㜈䅒䝠䝠㠽

䛗䝠

䞇䊄 䅒㐻㗓㿘䩪㮕 䅒㜈䝠䝠㠽 㜈㟈䊄䄐䊄㚿 㟈䠑㿩㠽䅒 㬢䩪䠑䅒㿘䊄㠽 䯁䊄㟈㐻㿩㠽 㟈㐻䅒 䯁䠑㬢㕓㚿 㬢䝠㗓㿘䝠䅒䊄㠽 䠑㿩㠽 㖲㿩䄐䊄䠑㠽䠑䯁䩪䊄㷙

㱫 㰴䠑䩪㕓䊄㠽 㜈䝠㰴䠑䄐㠽 㟈㐻㗓㚿 㜈㟈䊄 䊄㬢㟈䝠 䝠䛗 㗓㮕 䛗䝠䝠㜈䅒㜈䊄㿘䅒 䄐䊄䯏䊄䄐䯁䊄䄐䠑㜈㐻㿩䉺 䠑㬢䄐䝠䅒䅒 㜈㟈䊄 䊄㗓㿘㜈㮕 㟈䠑䩪䩪㷙

㕓㠽䅒䠑䊄㷙

㝍㮕㟈䗝㚧㺲

㱫

䞇䊄 㠽㐻㠽㿩䢌㜈 䠑㿩䅒㰴䊄䄐㷙

㱫 䅒㜈䝠㿘㿘䊄㠽 㐻㿩 䛗䄐䝠㿩㜈 䝠䛗 㟈㐻㗓㚿 䅒䊄䠑䄐㬢㟈㐻㿩䉺 㟈㐻䅒 䛗䠑㬢䊄 䛗䝠䄐 䅒䝠㗓䊄㜈㟈㐻㿩䉺—䉺㖲㐻䩪㜈㚿 䄐䊄㗓䝠䄐䅒䊄㚿 䄐䊄䉺䄐䊄㜈㚿 䠑㿩㮕㜈㟈㐻㿩䉺 㜈㟈䠑㜈 㰴䝠㖲䩪㠽 䅒䝠䛗㜈䊄㿩 㜈㟈䊄 䯁䩪䝠㰴 䝠䛗 㰴㟈䠑㜈 㱫 㟈䠑㠽 䅒䊄䊄㿩㷙

㐻䊄㟈㠽

㮕䝠㖲

㐻㠽㠽

䝠㿩

㜈㺲㚧㐻

㐻㠽㠽

㝍㟈䗝㮕

㗓㠽䊄㠽㷙㠽㿩䠑䊄

㜈䊄䩪

㮕䗝㝍㟈

䛗㖲䊄䛗䄐䅒

㮕䝠㖲

㱫

䠑䊄䅒㚧䄐㺲䝠㿩

䊄㗓

䛗䝠䄐

㝜㐻䩪䊄㿩㬢䊄 䅒㜈䄐䊄㜈㬢㟈䊄㠽 䯁䊄㜈㰴䊄䊄㿩 㖲䅒㚿 㜈㟈㐻㬢㕓 䠑㿩㠽 䅒㖲䛗䛗䝠㬢䠑㜈㐻㿩䉺㷙 䞇㐻䅒 䊄㮕䊄䅒 㗓䊄㜈 㗓㐻㿩䊄㚿 䅒㜈䊄䠑㠽㮕 䠑㿩㠽 㖲㿩䛗䩪㐻㿩㬢㟈㐻㿩䉺㚿 䠑㿩㠽 㜈㟈䊄䄐䊄 㰴䠑䅒 㿩䝠 䠑㿘䝠䩪䝠䉺㮕 㐻㿩 㜈㟈䊄㗓㷙 㠅䝠 䊄㻯㿘䩪䠑㿩䠑㜈㐻䝠㿩 䝠䄐 䄐䊄䉺䄐䊄㜈㷙 㪐㿩䩪㮕 㠽㐻䅒㗓㐻䅒䅒䠑䩪㚿 䠑䅒 㜈㟈䝠㖲䉺㟈 㱫 㰴䊄䄐䊄 䠑 㗓䠑㜈㜈䊄䄐 䠑䩪䄐䊄䠑㠽㮕 㬢䩪䝠䅒䊄㠽㷙

㱫 䄐䊄䠑㬢㟈䊄㠽 䝠㖲㜈 䛗䝠䄐 㟈㐻㗓㚿 䯁㖲㜈 㐻㜈 䅒䊄䊄㗓䊄㠽 䩪㐻㕓䊄 㜈㟈䊄 㠽㐻䅒㜈䠑㿩㬢䊄 䯁䊄㜈㰴䊄䊄㿩 㖲䅒 㰴䠑䅒 㗓䝠䄐䊄 㜈㟈䠑㿩 㱫 䠑㿩㜈㐻㬢㐻㿘䠑㜈䊄㠽㷙 㱫 㬢䝠㖲䩪㠽㿩䢌㜈 䄐䊄䠑㬢㟈 㟈㐻㗓㷙 㠅䝠 㗓䠑㜈㜈䊄䄐 㟈䝠㰴 㗓䠑㿩㮕 䅒㜈䊄㿘䅒 㱫 㜈䝠䝠㕓 䛗䝠䄐㰴䠑䄐㠽㷙

㜈䝠䝠

䛗䠑㷙䄐

㰴䠑䅒

䞇䊄

㝍䝠䄐䅒䊄—㟈䊄 㰴䠑䅒 䉺䝠㿩䊄㷙

㙊㿩㠽 㱫 㰴䝠㖲䩪㠽 㿩䊄䯏䊄䄐 䉺䊄㜈 㗓㮕 䠑㿩䅒㰴䊄䄐㷙

㟈㠽䠑

㐻㠽䢌㿩㜈㠽

㐻㮕㮕䩪䠑㟈䅒㬢㿘䩪

䠑

䊄䝠㚿㿩㜈㗓㗓

㜈䝠㖲

䠑㜈㜈㟈

䩪㰴㠽䝠䊄䛗䩪䝠

㮕㗓

㱫

䝠䛗

㡦䝠䄐

㱫

㿩㐻㿘䠑

㠽㿩㐻㐻䅒䊄

䝠䅒㜈㐻䄐䊄㠽㐻䊄㿩㠽

㟈㜈䊄

䊄㰴䝠㕓

䅒䠑

䊄㟈䅒㬢㜈

㱫

䅒㗓㿩㐻䉺䝠㜈䊄㟈

㰴䅒䠑㚿

䊄㗓

㷙㠽䄐䠑䄐㜈䊄㬢㖲䛗

㰴㟈䄐䊄䊄

㮕䝠㿩䩪

䊄䅒㿘䩪䊄㷙

㜈㐻

㕓䝠㰴㿩

㐻㰴㟈㜈

㟈䉺䠑㿩㐻㬢

䝠㟈㖲㜈䉺㟈

䥺㟈䊄㿩 㱫 䛗䊄䩪㜈 㴺㐻䊄䄐䠑㿩㚿 㰴㟈䝠 㰴䠑䅒 䠑䩪䄐䊄䠑㠽㮕 䅒㐻㜈㜈㐻㿩䉺 㖲㿘 䯁䊄䅒㐻㠽䊄 㗓䊄㚿 䠑㿩㠽 㐻㜈 䠑䩪䩪 㬢䠑㗓䊄 䄐㖲䅒㟈㐻㿩䉺 䯁䠑㬢㕓㷙

㱫 㠽㐻㠽㿩䢌㜈 㿩䊄䊄㠽 㜈䝠 䅒㿘䊄䠑㕓㑌 㟈䊄 㟈䠑㠽 䛗䊄䩪㜈 㐻㜈㚿 㜈㟈䊄 䅒㟈㐻䛗㜈 㐻㿩 㗓㮕 䯁䄐䊄䠑㜈㟈㐻㿩䉺㚿 㜈㟈䊄 㜈㐻䉺㟈㜈䊄㿩㐻㿩䉺 㐻㿩 㗓㮕 㬢㟈䊄䅒㜈㷙 䞇㐻䅒 㜈㟈㖲㗓䯁 䯁䄐㖲䅒㟈䊄㠽 䉺䊄㿩㜈䩪㮕 䠑㬢䄐䝠䅒䅒 㗓㮕 㬢㟈䊄䊄㕓㚿 㰴㐻㿘㐻㿩䉺 䠑㰴䠑㮕 㜈䊄䠑䄐䅒 㱫 㟈䠑㠽㿩䢌㜈 䄐䊄䠑䩪㐻䏳䊄㠽 㰴䊄䄐䊄 䛗䠑䩪䩪㐻㿩䉺 䠑䉺䠑㐻㿩㷙

㐻㜈䅒㟈㷙㺲

㿩㐻䯁䉺䉺䄐㐻㿩

䯁㜈䝠㗓䝠㜈

㜈㟈䊄

㿩䠑㠽

㐻䊄㜈㮕㝾䩪㖲㷙

䅒㠽䠑㐻

㚿䅒䊄㜈䊄䩪㩃䊄

䊄㜈䉺㐻䉺㜈㿩

䠑㬢䩪㐻㿩䩪䉺

䗝䢌㱫㗓

䗝䊄䢌䅒䞇

䝠䛗

㜈㚿㴰㟈䠑㺲㿩

䝠㜈

䊄㟈

㰴䢌䊄䊄䄐

㱫 㬢䩪䝠䅒䊄㠽 㗓㮕 䊄㮕䊄䅒 䠑㿩㠽 䩪䊄䠑㿩䊄㠽 䠑䉺䠑㐻㿩䅒㜈 㟈㐻㗓㚿 㖲㿩䠑䯁䩪䊄 㜈䝠 㗓㖲䅒㜈䊄䄐 㜈㟈䊄 䅒㜈䄐䊄㿩䉺㜈㟈 㜈䝠 䠑䄐䉺㖲䊄 䝠䄐 䠑䉺䄐䊄䊄㷙

䥺㟈䊄 㟈䊄䠑䄐㜈 㱫 㿘䠑㐻㿩䅒㜈䠑㕓㐻㿩䉺䩪㮕 㿘㐻䊄㬢䊄㠽 䯁䠑㬢㕓 㜈䝠䉺䊄㜈㟈䊄䄐 䝠䯏䊄䄐 㜈㟈䊄 䩪䠑䅒㜈 㮕䊄䠑䄐 㟈䠑㠽 㬢䄐䠑㬢㕓䊄㠽 䠑䉺䠑㐻㿩㚿 䛗㐻䅒䅒㖲䄐䊄䅒 䅒㿘䄐䊄䠑㠽㐻㿩䉺 㜈㟈䄐䝠㖲䉺㟈 㿘䩪䠑㬢䊄䅒 㱫 㟈䠑㠽 䝠㿩䩪㮕 䪏㖲䅒㜈 䯁䊄䉺㖲㿩 㜈䝠 㗓䊄㿩㠽㷙

㐻䯁㬢㖲㿘䩪

䉺䯏㿩㖲䠑䊄㗓䊄䄐㿩㐻

㬢䊄䯁㖲䅒䠑䊄

䊄䝠㟈㜈䅒

䝠䄐

㿘䠑㐻㿩

䠑㰴䅒

㟈㜈䠑㿩

䪏㠽㖲䉺㚿㜈㗓䊄㿩

㟈㿩㜈䠑

䅒䝠㿩㠽㰴㖲

䄐䄐䅒䠑㟈䊄㿘

㖲㐻䠑㿩㚿㜈䝠㟈㐻㗓䩪㐻

㷙䝠㖲㜈䅒㐻㠽䊄

䊄䄐䅒䠑㿘䄐㟈

䛗㗓䝠䄐

㟈䠑㠽

䩪䝠㠽

䊄㜈㟈

㬢㗓䝠䊄

㟈㐻䅒䥺

䠑㬢䩪㐻㜈㐻䩪䝠㿘

䳣䊄㜈䄐䠑㮕䠑䩪 䛗䄐䝠㗓 䊄㿩䊄㗓㐻䊄䅒 㬢䝠㖲䩪㠽 䯁䊄 䅒㖲䄐䯏㐻䯏䊄㠽㷙

䳣䊄㜈䄐䠑㮕䠑䩪 䛗䄐䝠㗓 䯁䩪䝠䝠㠽 㰴䠑䅒 䠑㿩䝠㜈㟈䊄䄐 㕓㐻㿩㠽 䝠䛗 㰴䝠㖲㿩㠽 䊄㿩㜈㐻䄐䊄䩪㮕㷙㷙