《Tender is the Night》F. Scott Fitzgerald

They were still in the happier stage of love.  They were full of brave illusions about each other, tremendous illusions, so that the communion of self with self seemed to be  on a plane where no other human relations mattered.  They both seemed to have arrived there with an extraordinary innocence, as though a series of pure accidents had driven them together, so many accidents that at last they were forced to conclude that they were for each other.  They had arrived with clean hands, or so it seemed, after no traffic with the merely curious and clandestine.

He remembered once when the grass was damp and she came to him on hurried feet, her thin slippers drenched with dew, she stood upon his shoes nestling close and held up her face, showing it as a book open at a page.