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didn't hurt like hell, Allison,” David had said to her. “No man likes to hear from the woman he loves about her sex experiences with another man. Women think we do, but we don't. The single standard is something that women have accepted much more readily than men. I think they invented it.” He laughed, was silent for a moment, then said, “It's ended, Allison—you and Brad, that's all over and done with. And now is going to be the roughest time of all for you because you have to pick up the pieces of your life and try to assemble them into a pattern.”
    â€œOh, David. How? It's always easy to give advice like that, high-sounding and vague. I want you to help me. Be specific. I don't want advice. I guess what I want is a prescription.”
    â€œGet to work,” David had told her. “It may sound trite but it's true. Work your damned head off. Work. To work at one's chosen task is one of the truly great satisfactions that life offers. It's a better healer than time.”
    In the end, Allison had said that she would try.
    â€œAnd about us, Allison?” he asked then, his eyes sad and imploring.
    â€œNothing about us, David. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Perhaps when you think about it, you won't be so sure that you want secondhand goods.” She turned her head away from him; her lips tight, trying to hold back the tears. She did not know whether it was the memory of Brad or David's question that had caused something in her breast to break.
    â€œShut up,” said David harshly. “I've never been a hold-out for virginity.”
    â€œI'll write to you, David. Maybe when I've gone back to work it'll be different. Maybe it's true. Perhaps time and work will accomplish what I haven't been able to.”
    So David Noyes had gone back to New York, and Allison had unpacked her manuscript and gone to work.
    Samuel's Castle was the story of Samuel Peyton, a rich Negro, who had married a white girl and had escaped from the ostracism of the world by building himself a castle on the hills outside of Peyton Place. This was the background, the counterpoint to the story of a town very much like Peyton Place and of the people who lived there. When Allison had finally finished writing the sixth draft and had sent it off to Brad, he called her the day after he had received it. It was not usual for an agent to give all his attention, and so quickly, to the work of a new, young, virtually unknown writer, Allison knew.
    â€œAllison, it's great!” Brad had said joyfully. “I'll sell it! I'm certain of that.”
    â€œAt last,” said Allison laconically, too tired and sick of the manuscript now to care what happened to it. She had done her best for it; now it was in the hands of others. It did not seem to belong to her any more.
    â€œListen, is Peyton Place at all like the town in the book?”
    â€œYes. Why?”
    â€œOh, nothing. Except that it must be one hell of a snake pit.”
    â€œPeyton Place is no different from any other small town, Brad, and neither is the town in the book. They're all alike.”
    â€œKeep your fingers crossed, baby,” said Brad. “You'll be hearing from me!”
    And every day since, Allison had awakened with the same first thought: Maybe it will happen today.
    â€œI've got to get at that living room today,” said Constance when she and Allison had finished the breakfast dishes. “It looks like a pigpen.”
    The living room did not look like a pigpen, but Constance was a meticulous housekeeper and the least sign of dust was enough to send her scurrying for the vacuum cleaner.
    â€œYou just went over that room with a fine-toothed comb the day before yesterday,” said Allison.
    â€œNevertheless,” said Constance, “I can't go around giving champagne parties for authoresses in dirty rooms.”
    â€œI'm going out to shovel the front walk,” said Allison, “and get the cobwebs off my