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Summary
With Nanny, though, Aziraphale had to state exactly what he desired, exactly how he desired it. Otherwise, he’d get nothing but a smack on the bottom. . .
“Good evening, Nanny.”
In her Scottish accent, she said, “Good evening, lamb.” She clacked over to him, standing a good seven, eight inches taller. Aziraphale reached for her, but she caught his wrists in black-gloved hands, holding them in a loose grip. “Tell Nanny what you need.”