“Are you coming?” he asked his mother. “Yes, I'll be up in a minute, but I can't find the scissors!”
Peter helped her look, rummaging around in her cosmetics drawer.
“Don't make such a mess, Peter,” she grumbled. I didn't catch Peter's reply, but it must have been insolent, because she cuffed him on the arm.
He cuffed her back, she punched him with all her might, and Peter pulled his arm away with a look of mock horror on his face.
“Come on, old girl!” Mrs. van D. stayed put. Peter grabbed her by the wrists and pulled her all around the room.
She laughed, cried, scolded and kicked, but nothing helped.
Peter led his prisoner as far as the attic stairs, where he was obliged to let go of her.
Mrs. van D. came back to the room and collapsed into a chair with a loud sigh.
“Die Entführung der Mutter,” I joked. “Yes, but he hurt me.”
I went to have a look and cooled her hot, red wrists with water.
Peter, still by the stairs and growing impatient again, strode into the room with his belt in his hand, like a lion tamer.
Mrs. van D. didn't move, but stayed by her writing desk, looking for a handkerchief.
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