The Library has over the years served me in many ways. When I lived elsewhere, it sent me a constant stream of books. Once, when I was reviewing a biography of George Eliot, could I have requested all of her works that injudiciously? Anyway, I was stalwartly sent them, one after the other, for what seemed weeks (all faithfully returned).
And once, when I was concluding Mysteries of Motion (1983), I was taken up to your top floor room by a kind curator and allowed to see a rarity—A Voyage to the Moon (1827), by Joseph Atterley, pseud. George Tucker. Which, quoted, allowed me to finish the book as I wanted to.