Now in November, published 1934, won the Pulitzer Award. A second novel, a book of verse, a volume of short stories over a ten year period show that Josephine Johnson refuses to be pigeon-holed as a writer of novels of social significance. Now comes this -- again in different mood, -- a perceptive, sensitive, but queerly introspective, almost morbid, psychological study of a girl growing up in an atmosphere hostile to any normal reactions. Left an orphan, Edith was taken by distant relatives, who revealed too plainly the shock in finding her a gawky adolescent, not a golden haired little girl. Thrust into a hurt aloneness, she was unable to combat their withdrawal from the world -- and her adolescence was torture, her maturity -- and chance to be herself -- came too late. An unrelieved picture of fear, shyness, inversion -- intensified by an atmosphere devoid of love.