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She studied Nate’s face. Neither of them was smiling now. “The Red Sea,” Nate repeated, drowning in the deep blue lakes of her eyes. Of course he remembered. How could he forget? One hot August weekend, the summer after tenth grade, Nate had been in the city with his dad, while the rest of the Archibald family was still in Maine. Serena was up in her country house in Ridgefield, Connecticut, so bored she’d painted each of her fingernails and toenails a different color. Blair was at the Waldorf castle in Gleneagles, Scotland, at her aunt’s wedding. But that hadn’t stopped her two best friends from having fun without her. When Nate called, Serena hopped right on the New Haven line into Grand Central Station. Nate met Serena on the platform. She stepped off the train wearing a light blue silk slip dress and pink rubber flip-flops. Her yellow hair hung loose, just touching her bare shoulders. She wasn’t carrying a bag, not even a wallet or keys. To Nate, she looked like an angel. How lucky he was. Life didn’t get any better than the moment when Serena flip-flopped down the platform, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him on the lips. That wonderful, surprising kiss. First they had martinis at the little bar upstairs by the Vanderbilt Avenue entrance to Grand Central. Then they got a cab straight up Park Avenue to Nate’s Eighty-second Street townhouse. His father was entertaining some foreign bankers and was going to be out until very late, so Serena and Nate had the place to themselves. Oddly enough, it was the first time they’d ever been alone together and noticed. It didn’t take long. They sat out in the garden, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. Nate was wearing a long-sleeved polo shirt, and the weather was extremely hot, so he took it off. His shoulders were scattered with tiny freckles, and his back was muscled and tan from hours at the docks, building a sailboat with his father up in Maine. Serena was hot too, so she climbed into the fountain. She sat on the marble Venus de Milo statue’s knee, splashing herself with water until her dress was soaked through. It wasn’t difficult to see who the real goddess was. Venus looked like a lumpy pile of marble compared to Serena. Nate staggered over to the fountain and got in with her, and soon they were tearing the rest of each other’s clothes off. It was August after all. The only way to tolerate the city in August is to get naked. Nate was worried about the security cameras trained on his parents’ house at all times, front and back, so he led Serena inside and up to his parents’ bedroom. The rest is history. They both had sex for the first time. It was awkward and painful and exciting and fun, and so sweet they forgot to be embarrassed. It was exactly the way you’d want your first time to be, and they had no regrets. Afterwards, they turned on the television, which was tuned to the History Channel, a documentary about the Red Sea. Serena and Nate lay in bed, holding each other and looking up at the clouds through the skylight overhead, while they listened to the narrator of the program talk about Moses parting the Red Sea. Serena thought that was hilarious. “You parted my Red Sea!” she howled, wrestling Nate against the pillows. Nate laughed and rolled her up in the sheet like a mummy. “And now I will leave you here as a sacrifice to the Holy Land!” he said in a deep, horror-movie voice. And he did leave her, for a little while. He got up and ordered a huge feast of Chinese food and bad white wine, and they lay in bed and ate and drank, and he parted her Red Sea once again before the sky grew dark and the stars twinkled in the skylight. A week later, Serena went away to boarding school at Hanover Academy, while Nate and Blair stayed behind in New York. Ever since, Serena had spent every vacation away—the Austrian Alps at Christmas, the Dominican Republic for Easter, the summer traveling in Europe. This was the first time she’d been back, the first time she and Nate had seen each other since the parting of the Red Sea. “Blair doesn’t know, does she?” Serena asked Nate quietly. Blair who? Nate thought, with a momentary case of amnesia. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “If you haven’t told her, she doesn’t know.” But Chuck Bass knew, which was almost worse. Nate had blurted the information out at a party only two nights ago in a drunken fit of complete stupidity. They’d been doing shots, and Chuck had asked, “So, Nate. What was your all time best fuck? That is, if you’ve done it all yet.” “Well, I did it with Serena van der Woodsen,” Nate had bragged, like an idiot. And Chuck wasn’t going to keep it a secret for long. It was way too juicy and way too useful. Chuck didn’t need to read that book How to Win Friends and Influence People. He fucking wrote it. Although he wasn’t doing so well in the friends department.
So his flames will waste away.
If this great world of joy and pain
Why did the stage reel under her? What was the shouting?
How then, seeing we are driven to the hypothesis that people choose in comparatively cold blood, how is it they choose so well? One is almost tempted to hint that it does not much matter whom you marry; that, in fact, marriage is a subjective affection, and if you have made up your mind to it, and once talked yourself fairly over, you could “pull it through” with anybody. But even if we take matrimony at its lowest, even if we regard it as no more than a sort of friendship recognised by the police, there must be degrees in the freedom and sympathy realised, and some principle to guide simple folk in their selection. Now what should this principle be? Are there no more definite rules than are to be found in the Prayer-book? Law and religion forbid the bans on the ground of propinquity or consanguinity; society steps in to separate classes; and in all this most critical matter, has common sense, has wisdom, never a word to say? In the absence of more magisterial teaching, let us talk it over between friends: even a few guesses may be of interest to youths and maidens.
“I suppose it’s true. But Helena hasn’t anything to do with the paper.”
"Something of the sort, but not exactly. A 'willy boy' never has ideas. Bennie has."
“Isn’t there something I can do? To help, I mean?”
To suppose that the act of the gift of the spirit was the mere act of God, and at the same time the mere act of the apostles, are propositions diametrically opposed to each other, and cannot both be true. But it may be supposed that the gift of the spirit was partly the act of God and partly the act of the apostles; admitting this to have been the case the consequences would follow, that the act of the gift of the spirit was partly divine and partly human, and therefore the beneficence and glory of the grant of the gift of the spirit unto the disciples, would belong partly to God and partly to the apostles, and in an exact proportion to that which God and they may be supposed to have respectively contributed towards the marvellous act of the gift of the spirit. But that God should act in partnership with man, or share his providence and glory with him, is too absurd to demand argumentative confutation, especially in an act which immediately respects the display or exertion of the divine spirit on the spirits of men.
1.Rapidly by means of twigs and a tracing on the wet sand he explained to May-may-gwán what was the matter and what was to be done. The fibula, or outer bone of the leg, had been snapped at its lower end just above the ankle, the foot had been dislocated to one side, and either the inner ligament of the ankle had given way, or--what would be more serious--one of the ankle-bones itself had been torn. Sam Bolton realised fully that it was advisable to work with the utmost rapidity, before the young man should regain consciousness, in order that the reduction of the fracture might be made while the muscles were relaxed. Nevertheless, he took time both to settle his own ideas, and to explain them to the girl. It was the luckiest chance of Dick Herron's life that he happened to be travelling with the one man who had assisted in the skilled treatment of such a case. Otherwise he would most certainly have been crippled.
I suggest this because, when you move up into the line, and the Gods who sell all things at a price are dealing you your places and your powers, you may find it serviceable, for ends outside yourself, to remind a friend on the far side of the world of some absurd situation or trivial event which parallels the crisis or the question then under your hands. And that man, in his station, remembering when and how the phrase was born, may respond to all that it implies — also for ends not his own. None can foresee on what grounds, national or international, some of you here may have to make or honour such an appeal; whether it will be for tangible help in vast material ventures, or for aid in things unseen; whether for a little sorely needed suspension of judgement in the councils of a nation as self-engrossed as your own; or, more searching still, for orderly farewells to be taken at some enforced parting of the ways. Any one of these issues may sweep to you across earth in the future. It will be yours to meet it with sanity, humour, and the sound heart that goes with a sense of proportion and the memory of good days shared together.
As he goes briskly northward along William Street, even through his landsman’s garb there shows much that is marine. Also, he evinces a sailor’s contempt for the dripping weather, plowing ahead through shine and through shower as though in the catalogue of the disagreeable there is no such word as a wetting.
"The little ones have of late invented a method of publishing encyclop?dias in a manner so well adapted to tempt, threaten, bully, or wire each member of the general public into the purchase of an entire copy, that if their encyclop?dias consisted of 6000 or 10,000 volumes each, the people of England, for instance, would have to conquer Norway, Sweden,[Pg 25] and Iceland first. Norway they would be obliged to conquer, in order to possess themselves of sufficient wood for the cases; Sweden, in order to appoint all Swedish gymnasts for the acrobatic feat of fetching a volume from the fiftieth row of a bookcase; and Iceland, in order to place excited readers of the encyclop?dia in a cool place. But for this circumstance, I am sure the little ones in Europe would fain publish an encyclop?dia in 15,000 volumes."
"From the route I could not imagine where you were heading.""You are not the only one who has been guessing. Our rivals arepositively nervous over the movements of this show. They think we aregoing to jump into the Mississippi River, or something of the sort--""Or float on it," added Phil.