The Prime Minister had just lost his son, his heart enveloped in intense malice. Not moved in the slightest by his wife's wailing.
"You vile woman, I always knew you couldn't stand Hao'er. Now that he's dead, you're happy, aren't you?"
He had thought he had a successor, but unexpectedly, his son had met a tragic death on the streets, and the Prime Minister's rage was as unending as the surging river.
"Prime Minister, how can you say such things! Hao'er also called me 'mother.' When tragedy befell him, I, too, was heartbroken," the wife said, crying so hard she could hardly speak, seemingly truly distressed.
Yet the Prime Minister remained unmoved: "Hao'er is dead, and here you are putting on airs. Don't you find it disgusting?"
"Prime Minister, you really wrong me. When Hao'er was alive, I loved him dearly, always treating him as my own son. You know this. Why, when something happens to him, do you put the blame on me?"
"How dare you speak! What about that dwarf?"
