"Nobody's home," she repeated, drawing slightly back from the window. "You go away, now."
"Ah," Jonas said pleasantly. "But you're home, aren't you?"
The old woman frowned at him suspiciously. "Now," she said vaguely. "Well."
"This is your house?" he said. "The house where you live?"
"Never saw you before," the old woman said.
"That's right," Jonas said equably.
"You come to turn me out?" she demanded. Her eyebrows—which were almost as big and black as her ancient mustache—came down over glittering little eyes. "I hold this house free and proper," she said in a determined roar, "and nobody can take it from me. It belongs to me, and to my children, and to their children, and to the children of those children—"
The catalogue seemed likely to go on forever. "Exactly," Jonas said hastily.
"Well, then," the old woman said, and started to draw back.
Jonas gestured lazily with one hand. "Wait," he said. "I am not going to take your house away from you, madam. I am only here to ask you a question."