Doc Shepard, the unshrinking violet of his profession (The Love Treatment, Beyond Sex Therapy), has written a sort of novel about Dr. Jonas Lippman, most misguided when he lays one of his sexually phobic patients, Arlene. After a weekend with his wife in the Hamptons, he finds she's been adulterous (only a snatch) with a painter which sends him back to New York and a week of the ministering Arlene. When Jonas dumps her summarily, Arlene takes too many pills, becomes catatonic, is given EST, and recovers to sue him for $250,000 worth of malpractice. But then there are the lawyers--they're worse--while the court case ends on a mote of indefensible tastelessness (the identifying freckle on the tip of you know what). Jonas is a schnook; Shepard is not--he's another kind of Ellis, Albert not Havelock.