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Title: no title
Review: One of the silliest books I've read in a long time, worse even than Sherwood Anderson's "Many Marriages". Richard Parrish, at 38, has not attained the emotional development of a teenager, and Alice is an utter inane wimp for loving him. She is nothing more than a doormat. This is certainly NOT a woman's novel, but Parrish borders on just plain unbelievable. Rita Coventry seems more real than either of them. Sort of reminds me of "Black Oxen" and "Tower of Ivory", both by Gertrude Atherton, in its depiction of New York Society and opera. Especially the dinner parties of the upper crust. Plot was soooo predictable, it was pathetic. No wonder this book was hard to get. It deserves to be forgotten. Terrific emphasis on interior decoration. Almost as if Street were himself a decorator, rather than a writer.
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