Had he not collaborated on the book to the extent of acquainting the author with details of his father's life, and his characteristics, which no outsider could possibly have learned?
There had been no disloyalty to his father in doing this.

Jefferson admired his father's smartness, if he could not approve his methods.

He did not consider the book an attack on his father, but rather a powerfully written pen picture of an extraordinary man.
Jefferson had met Shirley Rossmore two years before at a meeting of the Schiller Society, a pseudo-literary organization gotten up by a lot of old fogies for no useful purpose, and at whose monthly meetings the poet who gave the society its name was probably the last person to be discussed.

He had gone out of curiosity, anxious to take in all the freak shows New York had to offer, and he had been introduced to a tall girl with a pale, thoughtful face and firm mouth.

She was a writer, Miss Rossmore told him, and this was her first visit also to the evening receptions of the Schiller Society.