Actually, I feel that she rates simply as good pulp-upper crust trash, a necessary ingredient, perhaps, to the season's output. This is a story built around one of those anomalies which seem to recur with almost predictable regularity -- a human being endowed with an uncanny gift of healing. Almost a modern The Song of Bernadette. The setting is Manhattan. Veronica Bliss knows that she has a gift of healing in her hands; she can massage pain away, and yet she shuns the idea of becoming a professional like her mother, who has died when the story opens. In her father's second marriage, in his death, in the responsibility for her rascally step-brother after his mother's death (and the revelation of her ignominy) -- in all of these steps to maturity, Veronica still prefers as almost menial job to using this gift. Then accident reveals her as a miracle worker; her life is changed, people demand that she use her power, her step-brother dramatizes and cheapens her. But still her spiritual aloofness persists, while her mind- and heart-recognize the need to share her gift. One sordid ""romance"", one great love -- and Vercmica is faced with the realisation that the gift of her hands has separated her from normal life. She turns away from marriage to the man she wants, and turns towards linking her life to that of the doctor who has stood by her in the turmoil of the strange new power that Fats has given her. A queer and not wholly pleasant story.