A disappointing book from a man whose metier seems to be primarily the ability to cross section industry, to cut below the surface to wheels within wheels. This time he has written a story that already seems dated, twice told, a story of Greenwich Village, of a girl who is an inveterate man hunter, always seeking the perfect mate -- and failing to find him. The story is told through Frank, the one man who never failed her - who, at the close, might have won her had not the knife of a jealous wife found its goal. It is a story, too, of a bitter, frustrated Jew, who wanted to be a playwright, who wanted to be a flier -- and who couldn't be either, a man whose spirit was in torture over the agonies of his race. A thin surfaced book, which does not bear cutting below.