The title of ["Love's Lovely Counterfeit"] is all too descriptive. Bang it on your chair-arm when you have finished, and it will ring false as a plugged quarter. But if you can stomach the first chapter, it will hold you to the end—even if the after-effect is comparable to a morning at the reptile-house in the zoo. (pp. 6-7)
Mr. Cain's new novel is conceived in sin; like [his] others, it proves that the wages of sin is death. But "Love's Lovely Counterfeit" can hardly be compared to his earlier work. In fact, it is redeemed from sheer pulp melodrama only by his spine-tingling treatment of "big" scenes, his wonderfully accurate ear for the rhythms of dialogue. The plot is as trite as most Grade B movies, with the same awkward transitions, the same contrived crises. Every character, including the protagonist, is a hundred-per cent heel…. "When you come right down to it," says one stir-happy gunman, "nobody isn't so hot. Not really they're not. But if they're buddies, they can generally figure an angle." If this novel has a philosophy, it may well be summarized in these lines.
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