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.,Looking at Zhao Jiner, it took her half a day to squeeze out such a sentence. The man's lips curled into a smile.。