He never mentioned that Zhao Jin'er's future husband, Qin Muxiu, was a sickly man who was already bedridden.,Regardless of whether he was calling to himself, Zhao Jin'er still walked over to the small table in three steps and two strides, poured a bowl of hot tea for him, and held it out.,I wouldn't dare to touch that plate of bright red celebratory eggs. At my uncle's house, eggs are precious; only my cousin Zhuzi is allowed to eat them.。