The man was dressed in overalls that were splattered with dust and mud; even his face and hands weren’t spared. Mu Qiao vaguely remembered that Mo Han had mild mysophobia, and he required his suit jacket to be dry cleaned after wearing it once, even if it was only for half an hour.
“Mo Han, I’m Mu Qiao. Are you the Mo Han I know?” Mu Qiao couldn’t help asking although the hope within her was increasingly waning.
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