If we bear in mind the inherent shortcomings of the genre, it may fairly be said of Ms Lewis-Foster that she possesses a rare art: the art of making a bad story plausible. She even has a few good lines—one day I shall plagiarise "wine-warmed smile"—but she cannot resist a cliché: Tours are invariably described as "whirlwind," bodies "quiver in anticipation," hearts are set "racing with excitement," and knights don "shining armour." It may be true that we all have a novel inside of us, but better in than out in the present case. appears to have been typed rather than written. If so, it was a great deal easier to type than it is to read. Its tone is vulgar; it lacks invention. It is designed to thrill the repressed and soothe the subliterate, and no doubt they will be thrilled and soothed. Nature, I fear, did not intend Ms Lewis-Foster to write.