After a moment of silence, she answered in a nasal, hoarse voice, "The medicine will naturally do its job."
A common cold, no matter how good the doctor, there is no miracle cure.
Mo Shiqian watched her with a look of listlessness bordering on giving up, a flame kindled in his heart, and he said in an extremely displeased, hushed voice, "It will get better? Do you want to fry your brain?"
Even without a thermometer, his hand could feel that her fever was severe, at least thirty-nine degrees.
Looking at the woman in bed, sickly and lifeless, his heart felt as if it was being squeezed, and the flame burned even more fiercely.
Even his habitual endurance could barely suppress his tight voice, "Chi Huan, do you wish to be so sick that you have to lodge a complaint or punish me?"
Chi Huan was already feeling a bit aggrieved, though this grievance was not enough to provoke her temper.
But with the man's almost accusatory tone, her heart sank.
