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Wharton, Edith, 1862-1937

"Summer"

Of all these she knew nothing, except
what he had told her of his architectural aspirations. She had always
dimly guessed him to be in touch with important people, involved in
complicated relations--but she felt it all to be so far beyond her
understanding that the whole subject hung like a luminous mist on the
farthest verge of her thoughts. In the foreground, hiding all else,
there was the glow of his presence, the light and shadow of his face,
the way his short-sighted eyes, at her approach, widened and deepened
as if to draw her down into them; and, above all, the flush of youth and
tenderness in which his words enclosed her.
Now she saw him detached from her, drawn back into the unknown, and
whispering to another girl things that provoked the same smile of
mischievous complicity he had so often called to her own lips. The
feeling possessing her was not one of jealousy: she was too sure of
his love. It was rather a terror of the unknown, of all the mysterious
attractions that must even now be dragging him away from her, and of her
own powerlessness to contend with them.


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