Mile, Sagan, who always gets by with very little, hasn't overextended herself in this one, an outrageously unbelievable small story which even a Hollywood setting won't quite temper. There Dorothy Seymour, a middle-aged screen writer, equally successful with men, takes in as a protege a young man who is responsible for an accident on the road. Lewis is handsome, too handsome really, but a very disconcerting young man who is devoted to her in an odd fashion: he murders the two men in her former life (husbands) and a woman who had appropriate one of them; in fact he wants to kill everyone who has hurt her or might hurt her again. She asks him to stop -- killing, and perhaps he will although he seems to be a permanent part of the menage which is now consolidated with a new husband. All barely aspirated in an intimate undertone.