𝕰𝖘𝖊 𝖈𝖗𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖔 𝖗𝖔𝖙𝖔. 𝖄𝖔 𝖘𝖊𝖓𝖙í 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖔 𝖈𝖗𝖚𝖏í𝖆. 𝕬𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖘 𝖉𝖊 𝖈𝖆𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖊 𝖆𝖑 𝖘𝖚𝖊𝖑𝖔. 𝖄𝖆 𝖘𝖆𝖇í𝖆 𝖖𝖚𝖊 𝖘𝖊 𝖗𝖔𝖒𝖕í𝖆. 𝕰𝖘𝖙á 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖕𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖔. 𝕷𝖆 𝖑𝖚𝖟 𝖉𝖊𝖑 𝖉𝖊𝖘𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖘𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖔. 𝖀𝖓𝖆 𝖛𝖔𝖟 𝖊𝖓 𝖑𝖆 𝖊𝖘𝖈𝖆𝖑𝖊𝖗𝖆. 𝕬𝖑𝖌𝖚𝖎𝖊𝖓 𝖈𝖗𝖚𝖟𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖔 𝖊𝖑 𝖕𝖆𝖘𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖔. 𝕸𝖆𝖑𝖆𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖊.Bảo Lưu Mọi Quyền
𝕰𝖘𝖊 𝖈𝖗𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖔 𝖗𝖔𝖙𝖔. 𝖄𝖔 𝖘𝖊𝖓𝖙í 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖔 𝖈𝖗𝖚𝖏í𝖆. 𝕬𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖘 𝖉𝖊 𝖈𝖆𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖊 𝖆𝖑 𝖘𝖚𝖊𝖑𝖔. 𝖄𝖆 𝖘𝖆𝖇í𝖆 𝖖𝖚𝖊 𝖘𝖊 𝖗𝖔𝖒𝖕í𝖆. 𝕰𝖘𝖙á 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖕𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖔. 𝕷𝖆 𝖑𝖚𝖟 𝖉𝖊𝖑 𝖉𝖊𝖘𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖘𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖔. 𝖀𝖓𝖆 𝖛𝖔𝖟 𝖊𝖓 𝖑𝖆 𝖊𝖘𝖈𝖆𝖑𝖊𝖗𝖆. 𝕬𝖑𝖌𝖚𝖎𝖊𝖓 𝖈𝖗𝖚𝖟𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖔 𝖊𝖑 𝖕𝖆𝖘𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖔. 𝕸𝖆𝖑𝖆𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖊.
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