Here in New York City, this past summer, I always call on my friend who has run this wonderful bookstore over the years. In fact, most of my library I bought from her. She was only interested in money. I would go…she would sell my book because she made a dollar. She had no interest whatsoever in anything I wrote in the books. She had a fabulous library of metaphysical books. She didn’t know the contents of one of them, but she knew where every one was and the price of business. If she knew your interest and you started in a certain direction, she could divert you for a moment while she’d take that book out, rub out the price and put another price in. I never corrected her. I caught her doing it with me. She always did it to my wife when my wife went in looking for a certain books for me. She knew she would never question the price if she had the book, and she would do it. I would go in and she would say, “Oh, Neville, you certainly do dream, don’t you?” I said, “Mary, these are not dreams, these are visions paralleling scripture.” “Oh, Neville!” then she’d turn to something else. If I would talk politics, which I didn’t, if I would talk money with her, occasionally I did, then she would have all ears. But when I began to tell her of a vision, of an experience of mine, Mary had no time for it at all. This goes back into the 20s.756 ¶4