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However, this was loyal, faithful service, and the Doña had an innate respect for the first-rate; but, though honouring Nanny, she did not feel in the least ashamed of herself.
She changed the subject, and sat on, for a while, chatting on safe, innocent topics.
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The Doña considered that no sand-dune, Turkish divan, bank whereon the wild thyme blows, or Patriarch’s bosom, could rival her own fragrant-sheeted, box-spring-mattressed, eiderdowned bed; therefore she went there early and lay there late. So on leaving the nursery, although it was barely half-past nine, she went straight to bed, and there she was soon established, her face smeared with Crême Simon, with a Spanish novel lying open on the quilt. But the comfort of beds, as of all other things—even though they be ponderable and made of wood and iron—is subject to the capricious tyranny of dreams; and for some time, in spite of the skill of Mr. Heal, the Doña’s bed had not been entirely compact of roses.
When, an hour or so later, Dick climbed into his bed, she said, “I suppose you realise that Harry has forgotten all about my Pepa?”