The summer Daisy Montgomery arrived in East Hampton, the world ended. Nobody sai
Daisy didn't know this. She was twenty-two, and she believed in things that had names and shapes: diamonds on her finger, a white dress on her back, the rumble of an engine beneath her feet. She believed in the future, which was a particular kind of American delusion that only people from places like Louisville could sustain. "You look like a dream, sweetheart," her uncle Nick said, raising...
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