Once you cut through the bindweed, roses and columbines as overgrown as the atmospheric prose, you'll no doubt submit (Iris Murdoch did) to a most suggestible story of an old Georgian house in Oxfordshire, the young couple who buy it, Nemo and James Boyce, and the donnish narrator Harris who falls in love with both the house and Nemo--Greek for Mnemosyne and Latin for Nemo, no one. But she's certainly something, a thoroughbred beauty with flair, migraines, and moodswings. Harris (could this story really be told by a man or read by anything but a woman?) is a bachelor and obsessed by Nemo who seduces him, and then leaves him her note-book of other passionate loves and deaths including that of a workman. Is she really Nemo, or the impersonation of an earlier Regency actress, or just a homicidal nymph/ moth. A high-toned hybrid of two favorite forms--gothic and occult--and ultra-luxurious ensorcellment in either or both cases.