“Not much,” I told her. “He’ll be a little sore for a day or two.”
Donald lifted his face to speak. “I’m all right, Mom. But did you hear what—”
“Yes, I heard everything.”
“You come back upstairs,” Joseph G. commanded her.
She paid no attention to him. She was no great treat to look at — short and fairly plump, with a plain round face, standing with her shoulders pulled back, probably on account of her injured back — but there was something to her, especially to her voice, which seemed to come from deeper than her throat.
“I’ve been standing too long,” she said.
Sybil started to guide her to the divan, but she said no, she preferred a chair, and let herself be helped to one and to sit, after it had been moved so that she would be facing Wolfe.
Donald, who had managed to get himself back on his feet, went and patted her on the shoulder and told her, I’m all right, Mom.”
She paid no attention to him either. She was gazing straight at Wolfe.
“You’re Nero Wolfe,” she told him.