Even in a full-length novel like "The Dark Daughters," Rhys Davies' talents as a short-story writer show through. Somewhere near the end of his book, in clear-cut relief, stands his imaginative concept complete: a house of hate dominated by three harpies who torment their father to death for his sins. This pretty Grand Guignol conceit takes care of everything. The rest of the book seems to be merely a recital of events leading up to the crime.

The author has a special touch with the dark unease of the Welsh temperament. Even in his most sedate vein of storytelling there is a trace of inner disorder, a faint stirring of horror which often leads the reader to the thin edge of fear. No matter where you start with Rhys Davies, you are apt to end up on intimate terms with the macabre.

In this novel Mr. Davies employs no subtle lure to the everyday imagination. There is a house of hate to be built and the life of Mansell Roberts is the very cornerstone of that house. Unsparingly the author gives us the dismal saga….

There is nothing moving about the manner of his undoing…. [The] mechanical precision with which the three girls are prepared for a psychopathic ward leaves no room for pity or tenderness. There are a dozen shocking situations in this story which leave no sensation. Mr. Davies' words and manner are shock-repellent….

During the scenes where the avenging furies turn the full force of malice on their father we have the bewildering feeling of meeting the author for the first time in a great many pages through Kate's hard, clear intelligence; through the artistry inherent in the horror-soaked atmosphere; through the portrayal of Marian, who proves that vanity can make an insipid obscenity of a good straightforward emotion like hate. Here is something to feed the imagination, even if it is the substance of nightmare drawing-room comedy.

The other struggle—between Mansell's mysticism and his earthly lusts—heaves and groans to a symbolic standstill.