So I would say to someone…the lady who ran the bookstore in New York City from whom I bought so many books and knowing my passion for a book—if I wanted it I never thought of price—she always marked it up. If she knew my interest, I could see the figure that was there before and she’d rub it out. If it was $8.50, now it’s $12.50…leave the .50, put in the twelve, and rub out the eight. She did it time and time again. I paid her as high as $100 for three books…she’d rub it out and put them all in. She always said to me, “You know, Neville, you have the most vivid dreams, don’t you?” “Not dreams at all. These are visions where I commune with myself, but the self is God, and yet it is myself.” “Oh, Neville!” she would say. Two years ago when I went back to New York City I inquired about her…“Oh, she was killed just a month ago. She went out at night, no identification marks on her, she stepped off on a dark street and a huge truck nearby couldn’t stop and she was instantly killed. Her husband couldn’t locate her for four days, but finally found her in the morgue where they kept the body waiting for someone to come and identify her. There was Mary.753 ¶17