The summer of 1925 began with music and ended, as all summers on Long Island do, with something nobody could name.
Clara Whitmore first saw Finn Brennan on the terrace of Whitmore Hall, standing at the edge of the champagne crowd like a man who had taken a wrong turn at Manhattan and was now trying to find his way back without admitting he was lost. She was twenty-one, beautiful in the way that inherited beauty tends to be—symmetrical, pale, and utterly uninterested in its own existence. Her dress was white...
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