Here is a novel of husbands and wives-modern American husbands and other men’s wives-who drink too much, try too often, live too hard . . . who grab kisses in the kitchen, meet clandestinely in bars, share stolen hours in parked cars and second-rate motels. Here is a blistering story of suburbia, of the alley-cat morality of the lawn-partying, card-playing social set . . . of men who work too much and love too little . . . of women who play too much and love too many . . .
Amy Miller was the kind of wife tired of trying to please her husband, tired of fighting off a hot-handed boss, tired of quick affairs with casual acquaintances. Ethel Ireland was another suburban wife, a loving gift-package of domestic passion when passion suited her purpose, a take-your-hands-off-me iceberg at other times. Ethel’s husband, Hank, found his world blowing apart when he dared to swap her refrigerated technique for the nuclear charge of Amy’s any-man-can-have-them kisses!
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