When passing by a woman with a towel on her head, holding a child, Zhou Xuan crouched down and tore off half of the meat, handing it to her: "Your health isn't good, and you have to care for a child. Eat some meat to nourish yourself."
"Thank you, sir, thank you, sir."
"It's nothing."
After Zhou Xuan stood up, he tore the meat in his hand into several portions and distributed them to a few other people who were ill.
By the time he found an open space, Zhou Xuan was left with only greasy fingers.
"Fuzi, don't waste it. You can dip your finger, it's still meat,"
"No, sir, I'm strong, I can bear it, I don't need too much grease," Little Fuzi made a mischievous face, rejecting Zhou Xuan's "kindness."
Zhou Xuan chuckled too, wiped the grease with a handkerchief, and sipped the porridge along the edge of the bowl.
