Qiao Qingyu turned her head to look at Xiao Hu, who lay on the ground. Xiao Hu had been hit, and his mouth was bleeding. She checked his pulse and his breathing. That was all Qiao Qingyu could do now.
The next moment, Qiao Qingyu breathed a sigh of relief; Xiao Hu was still alive.
She picked up Xiao Hu and, holding onto He Xuerong who had stayed right by her side, hurried outside. The door was wide open, the fierce wind was still howling, but she clearly heard an old lady speaking, her voice distant and unclear. She hid by the door and looked outside.
There were about seven or eight people standing at the doorway.
She saw the old lady from the carriage, her face full of confusion and disbelief, pointing at the broken lock on the big door and saying something.
There was also the middle-aged woman who had opened the door for the old lady, and five middle-aged men in their thirties or forties, two of whom had hoes slung over their shoulders.
