Does the fire within burn the tongue in cheek?
At least I hope Wentworth had her tongue lodged firmly in her cheek when she wrote this entirely silly mishmash of a novel, but I wouldn't bet on it. The story started out as a murder mystery which was soon resolved, became a question of moral dilemma, and ended up being about somnambulist sex.
I'm not pulling your leg, that really is the gist of it.
The murder mystery was by far the best part, very much in the vein of Agatha Christie involving an inheritance, arsenic, possible suspects and gossipy neighbours. Unfortunately Wentworth didn't specialise in whodunits at the outset of her career (this is one of her earliest published efforts) so the mystery soon morphed into a romance, after which things went rapidly downhill.
The second part focused on David Blake's unrequited love for the feather-headed Mary, which led him to betray his honour as a doctor. He suffered what can best be described gas a breakdown, but in all honesty I don't really know what the hell was wrong with him. During all this time Elizabeth, Mary's elder sister, had been holding her own a torch for him.
And so onto the final revelation, by way of some wafty claptrap about dreams, hypnotism, Ancient Egypt(?) and David's amatory midnight strolls. Will love conquer all, or does sex while sleepwalking not really count?
Now there's a question.
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