Summer by Edith Wharton

Their eyes met, and something rose in his that she had never seen there: a look that made her feel ashamed and yet secure.

“I guess you’re good, too,” she said, shyly and quickly. He smiled without answering, and they went out of the room together and dropped down to the hall in the glittering lift.

Late that evening, in the cold autumn moonlight, they drove up to the door of the red house.

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