Questões de Concurso
Sobre interpretação de texto | reading comprehension em inglês
Foram encontradas 12.687 questões
Ano: 2018
Banca:
FCC
Órgão:
Câmara Legislativa do Distrito Federal
Prova:
FCC - 2018 - Câmara Legislativa do Distrito Federal - Inspetor de Polícia Legislativa |
Q1149535
Inglês
Texto associado
Atenção: Considere o texto abaixo para responder à questão.
Family-Based Immigrant Visas
Two groups of family based immigrant visa categories, including immediate relatives and family preference categories, are provided under the provisions of United States immigration law, specifically the Immigration and Nationality Act (INA). As the first step, a sponsoring relative must file a Petition for Alien Relative, Form I-130 with the Department of Homeland Security, U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services (USCIS).
Immediate Relative Immigrant Visas (Unlimited): These visa types are based on a close family relationship with a United States (U.S.) citizen described as an Immediate Relative (IR). The number of immigrants in these categories is not limited each fiscal year. Immediate relative visa types include:
− IR-1: Spouse of a U.S. Citizen Note: A spouse is a legally wedded husband or wife. Merely living together does not qualify a marriage for immigration.
− IR-2: Unmarried Child Under 21 Years of Age of a U.S. Citizen
− IR-3: Orphan adopted abroad by a U.S. Citizen
− IR-4: Orphan to be adopted in the U.S. by a U.S. citizen − IR-5: Parent of a U.S. Citizen who is at least 21 years old
Family Preference Immigrant Visas (Limited): These visa types are for specific, more distant, family relationships with a U.S. citizen and some specified relationships with a Lawful Permanent Resident (LPR). There are fiscal year numerical limitations on family preference immigrants, shown at the end of each category. The family preference categories are:
− Family First Preference (F1): Unmarried sons and daughters of U.S. citizens, and their minor children, if any. (23,400)
− Family Second Preference (F2): Spouses, minor children, and unmarried sons and daughters (age 21 and over) of LPRs. At least seventy-seven percent of all visas available for this category will go to the spouses and children; the remainder is allocated to unmarried sons and daughters. (114,200)
− Family Third Preference (F3): Married sons and daughters of U.S. citizens, and their spouses and minor children. (23,400)
− Family Fourth Preference (F4): Brothers and sisters of U.S. citizens, and their spouses and minor children, provided the U.S.
citizens are at least 21 years of age. (65,000)
Note: Grandparents, aunts, uncles, in-laws, and cousins cannot sponsor a relative for immigration.
Numerical Limitations for Limited Family-Based Preference Categories
Whenever the number of qualified applicants for a category exceeds the available immigrant visas, there will be an immigration wait. In this situation, the available immigrant visas will be issued in the chronological order in which the petitions were filed using their priority date.
(Adapted from: https://travel.state.gov/content/travel/en/us-visas/immigrate/family-immigration/family-based-immigrant-visas.html#1)
Segundo o texto,
Ano: 2018
Banca:
IBADE
Órgão:
Prefeitura de Ji-Paraná - RO
Prova:
IBADE - 2018 - Prefeitura de Ji-Paraná - RO - Professor Nível II - Inglês |
Q1128081
Inglês
Texto associado
Text 3:
Simple Steps to Improve Your English Reading Comprehension
1- Read the right books
If you dislike science fiction, you might not want to read a book about a man stuck on Mars. When you're choosing books (and other texts) to read, keep two things in mind:
1st. What you're interested in
2nd. Your reading level
Whenever you can, you should read things that you enjoy. You should also choose books that are at an English level just above the one you're most comfortable with. You want to challenge yourself just enough to learn new things, but not enough to get frustrated with your reading.
2. Ask yourself questions while reading and after reading
There's more to understanding a book than just reading the words!
There are a few things you can do before, during and after you read to help you better understand the text.
Before you read, browse the text. Take some time after you read too, to browse again and summarize what you remember. Try to quickly say or write a few sentences that describe what the text was all about.
Thinking about what you read will show you how much of it you really understood, and help you figure out if you still have questions.
Adapted from:
https://www.fluentu.com/blog/english/how-to-improve-englishreading/
According to the second step presented in the text, students should browse the text. If you browse a text, you:
Ano: 2018
Banca:
IBADE
Órgão:
Prefeitura de Ji-Paraná - RO
Prova:
IBADE - 2018 - Prefeitura de Ji-Paraná - RO - Professor Nível II - Inglês |
Q1128080
Inglês
Texto associado
Text 3:
Simple Steps to Improve Your English Reading Comprehension
1- Read the right books
If you dislike science fiction, you might not want to read a book about a man stuck on Mars. When you're choosing books (and other texts) to read, keep two things in mind:
1st. What you're interested in
2nd. Your reading level
Whenever you can, you should read things that you enjoy. You should also choose books that are at an English level just above the one you're most comfortable with. You want to challenge yourself just enough to learn new things, but not enough to get frustrated with your reading.
2. Ask yourself questions while reading and after reading
There's more to understanding a book than just reading the words!
There are a few things you can do before, during and after you read to help you better understand the text.
Before you read, browse the text. Take some time after you read too, to browse again and summarize what you remember. Try to quickly say or write a few sentences that describe what the text was all about.
Thinking about what you read will show you how much of it you really understood, and help you figure out if you still have questions.
Adapted from:
https://www.fluentu.com/blog/english/how-to-improve-englishreading/
According to the first step presented in the text, students should:
Ano: 2018
Banca:
IBADE
Órgão:
Prefeitura de Ji-Paraná - RO
Prova:
IBADE - 2018 - Prefeitura de Ji-Paraná - RO - Professor Nível II - Inglês |
Q1128074
Inglês
Texto associado
Read the text below and answer the questions that follow:
Text 1:
The Digital Divide
A recent survey has shown that the number of people in the United Kingdom who do not intend to get Internet access has risen. These people, who are known as 'net refuseniks', make up 44% of UK households, or 11.2 million people in total.
The research also showed that more than 70 percent of these people said that they were not interested in getting connected to the Internet. This number has risen from just over 50% in 2005, with most giving lack of computer skills as a reason for not getting Internet access, though some also said it was because of the cost.
More and more people are getting broadband and high speed net is available almost everywhere in the UK, but there are still a significant number of people who refuse to take the first step.
The cost of getting online is going down and Internet speeds are increasing, so many see the main challenge to be explaining the relevance of the Internet to this group. This would encourage them to get connected before they are left too far behind. The gap between those who have access to and use the Internet and those who don't is the digital divide, and if the gap continues to widen, those without access will get left behind and miss out on many opportunities, especially in their careers.
Adapted from:
www.usingenglish.com/comprehension
The title “the digital divide” refers to:
Ano: 2018
Banca:
IBADE
Órgão:
Prefeitura de Ji-Paraná - RO
Prova:
IBADE - 2018 - Prefeitura de Ji-Paraná - RO - Professor Nível II - Inglês |
Q1128067
Inglês
Texto associado
Read the text below and answer the questions that follow:
Text 1:
The Digital Divide
A recent survey has shown that the number of people in the United Kingdom who do not intend to get Internet access has risen. These people, who are known as 'net refuseniks', make up 44% of UK households, or 11.2 million people in total.
The research also showed that more than 70 percent of these people said that they were not interested in getting connected to the Internet. This number has risen from just over 50% in 2005, with most giving lack of computer skills as a reason for not getting Internet access, though some also said it was because of the cost.
More and more people are getting broadband and high speed net is available almost everywhere in the UK, but there are still a significant number of people who refuse to take the first step.
The cost of getting online is going down and Internet speeds are increasing, so many see the main challenge to be explaining the relevance of the Internet to this group. This would encourage them to get connected before they are left too far behind. The gap between those who have access to and use the Internet and those who don't is the digital divide, and if the gap continues to widen, those without access will get left behind and miss out on many opportunities, especially in their careers.
Adapted from:
www.usingenglish.com/comprehension
According to the text, the main reason for not getting Internet access is:
Ano: 2018
Banca:
IBADE
Órgão:
Prefeitura de Ji-Paraná - RO
Prova:
IBADE - 2018 - Prefeitura de Ji-Paraná - RO - Professor Nível II - Inglês |
Q1128066
Inglês
Texto associado
Read the text below and answer the questions that follow:
Text 1:
The Digital Divide
A recent survey has shown that the number of people in the United Kingdom who do not intend to get Internet access has risen. These people, who are known as 'net refuseniks', make up 44% of UK households, or 11.2 million people in total.
The research also showed that more than 70 percent of these people said that they were not interested in getting connected to the Internet. This number has risen from just over 50% in 2005, with most giving lack of computer skills as a reason for not getting Internet access, though some also said it was because of the cost.
More and more people are getting broadband and high speed net is available almost everywhere in the UK, but there are still a significant number of people who refuse to take the first step.
The cost of getting online is going down and Internet speeds are increasing, so many see the main challenge to be explaining the relevance of the Internet to this group. This would encourage them to get connected before they are left too far behind. The gap between those who have access to and use the Internet and those who don't is the digital divide, and if the gap continues to widen, those without access will get left behind and miss out on many opportunities, especially in their careers.
Adapted from:
www.usingenglish.com/comprehension
Read the following sentences about the text:
1. The majority of people in the UK can be considered 'net refuseniks'. 2. Most of the people who do not have Internet access want to get it. 3. The main reason for not getting Internet access is the cost. 4. Few of the people surveyed in 2005 were not interested in getting connected to the Internet. 5. Nowadays there are few people who refuse to get Internet access.
Check the right option:
1. The majority of people in the UK can be considered 'net refuseniks'. 2. Most of the people who do not have Internet access want to get it. 3. The main reason for not getting Internet access is the cost. 4. Few of the people surveyed in 2005 were not interested in getting connected to the Internet. 5. Nowadays there are few people who refuse to get Internet access.
Check the right option:
Ano: 2018
Banca:
IBADE
Órgão:
Prefeitura de Ji-Paraná - RO
Prova:
IBADE - 2018 - Prefeitura de Ji-Paraná - RO - Professor Nível II - Inglês |
Q1128065
Inglês
Texto associado
Read the text below and answer the questions that follow:
Text 1:
The Digital Divide
A recent survey has shown that the number of people in the United Kingdom who do not intend to get Internet access has risen. These people, who are known as 'net refuseniks', make up 44% of UK households, or 11.2 million people in total.
The research also showed that more than 70 percent of these people said that they were not interested in getting connected to the Internet. This number has risen from just over 50% in 2005, with most giving lack of computer skills as a reason for not getting Internet access, though some also said it was because of the cost.
More and more people are getting broadband and high speed net is available almost everywhere in the UK, but there are still a significant number of people who refuse to take the first step.
The cost of getting online is going down and Internet speeds are increasing, so many see the main challenge to be explaining the relevance of the Internet to this group. This would encourage them to get connected before they are left too far behind. The gap between those who have access to and use the Internet and those who don't is the digital divide, and if the gap continues to widen, those without access will get left behind and miss out on many opportunities, especially in their careers.
Adapted from:
www.usingenglish.com/comprehension
According to the first paragraph, who are the 'net refuseniks'?
Ano: 2018
Banca:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos)
Órgão:
Prefeitura de Pará de Minas - MG
Prova:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos) - 2018 - Prefeitura de Pará de Minas - MG - Professor - Inglês |
Q1118368
Inglês
Texto associado
INSTRUCTIONS: This test comprises fifteen questions
taken from the text below. Read the text carefully and
then mark the alternatives that answer the questions or
complete the sentences presented after it.
The whole affair began so very quietly. When I wrote, that
summer, and asked my friend Louise if she would come
with me on a car trip to Provence, I had no idea that I
might be issuing an invitation to danger. And when we
arrived one afternoon, after a hot but leisurely journey, at
the enchanting little walled city of Avignon, we felt in that
mood of pleasant weariness mingled with anticipation
which marks, I believe, the beginning of every normal
holiday.
I even sang to myself as I put the car away, and when
I found they had given me a room with a balcony. And
when, later on, the cat jumped on to my balcony, there
was still nothing to indicate that this was the beginning of
the whole strange, uneasy, tangled business. Or rather,
not the beginning, but my own cue, the point where I
came in. And, though the part I was to play in the tragedy
was to break and re-form the pattern of my whole life, yet
it was a very minor part, little more than a walk on in the
last act. For most of the play had been played already;
there had been love and lust and revenge and fear and
murder – all the blood-tragedy – and now the killer, with
blood enough on his hands, was waiting in the wings for
the lights to go up again, on the last kill that would bring
the final curtain down.
Louise is tall and fair and plump, with long legs, a
pleasant voice, and beautiful hands. She is an artist,
has no temperament to speak of, and is unutterably and
incurably lazy. Before my marriage to Johnny Selbourne,
I had taught at the Alice Private School for Girls in the
West Midlands. Louise was still Art Mistress there, and
owed her continued health and sanity to the habit of
removing herself out of the trouble zone.
When Louise had gone to her own room, I washed,
changed into a white frock with a wide blue belt, and did
my face and hair very slowly. It was still hot, and the late
sun’s rays fell obliquely across the balcony, through the
half-opened shutter, in a shaft of copper-gold. Motionless,
the shadows of the thin leaves traced a pattern across it
as delicate and precise as a Chinese painting on silk, the
image of the tree, brushed in like that by the sun, had a
grace that the tree itself gave no hint of, for it was merely
one of the nameless spindly affairs, parched and dustladen, that struggled up towards the sky from their pots
in the hotel out below.
The courtyard was empty: people were still resting,
or changing, or, if they were the mad English, walking
out in the afternoon sun. A white-painted trellis wall
separated the court on one side from the street, and
beyond it people, mules, cars, occasionally even buses,
moved about their business up and down the narrow
thoroughfare. But inside the vine-covered trellis it was
very still and peaceful.
Then fate took a hand. The first cue I had of it was the
violent shaking of the shadows on the balcony. Then
the ginger cat shot on to my balcony and sent down on
her assailant the look to end all looks, and sat calmly
down to wash. From below a rush and a volley of barking
explained everything.
Then came a crash, and the sound of running feet.
The courtyard, formerly so empty and peaceful, seemed
all of a sudden remarkably full of a boy and a large,
nondescript dog. The latter, with his earnest gaze still on
the balcony, was leaping futilely up and down, pouring
out rage, hatred and excitement, while the boy tried with
one hand to catch and quell him and with the other to lift
one of the tables which had been knocked on to its side.
It was, luckily, not one of those which had been set for
dinner.
The boy looked up and saw me. He straightened, pushed
his hair back from his forehead, and grinned.
“My French isn’t terribly good,” I said. “Do you speak
English?”
He looked immensely pleased.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I am English,” he admitted. ”My
name’s David,” he said. “David Shelley.”
Well, I was into the play.
I judged him to be about thirteen – who was lucky enough
to be enjoying a holiday in the South of France.
Before I could speak again we were interrupted by a
woman who came in through the vine-trellis, from the
street. She was, I guessed, thirty-five. She was also
blonde, tall, and quite the most beautiful woman I had
ever seen. The simple cream dress she wore must have
been one of Dior’s favourite dreams, and the bill for it her
husband’s nightmare.
She did not see me at all, which again was perfectly
natural. She paused a moment when she saw the boy
and the dog, then came forward with a kind of eyecompelling glance which would have turned heads in
Piccadilly on a wet Monday morning.
She paused and spoke. Her voice was pleasant,
her English perfect, but her accent was that of a
Frenchwoman.
“David.”
No reply.
“Mon fils... “
Her son? He did not glance up. “Don’t you know what
time it is? Hurry up and change. It’s nearly dinner time.”
Without a word the boy went into the hotel, trailing
a somewhat subdued dog after him on the end of a
string. His mother stared after him for a moment, with
an expression half puzzled, half exasperated. Then she
gave a smiling little shrug of the shoulders and went into
the hotel after the boy.
I picked my bag up and went downstairs for a drink.
STEWART, Mary. Madam, will you talk?. Hodder and
Stoughton: Coronet Books, 1977, p. 5-14 (Edited).
In the sentence “Louise was still Art Mistress there”,
found in the text, the particle there stands for:
Ano: 2018
Banca:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos)
Órgão:
Prefeitura de Pará de Minas - MG
Prova:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos) - 2018 - Prefeitura de Pará de Minas - MG - Professor - Inglês |
Q1118366
Inglês
Texto associado
INSTRUCTIONS: This test comprises fifteen questions
taken from the text below. Read the text carefully and
then mark the alternatives that answer the questions or
complete the sentences presented after it.
The whole affair began so very quietly. When I wrote, that
summer, and asked my friend Louise if she would come
with me on a car trip to Provence, I had no idea that I
might be issuing an invitation to danger. And when we
arrived one afternoon, after a hot but leisurely journey, at
the enchanting little walled city of Avignon, we felt in that
mood of pleasant weariness mingled with anticipation
which marks, I believe, the beginning of every normal
holiday.
I even sang to myself as I put the car away, and when
I found they had given me a room with a balcony. And
when, later on, the cat jumped on to my balcony, there
was still nothing to indicate that this was the beginning of
the whole strange, uneasy, tangled business. Or rather,
not the beginning, but my own cue, the point where I
came in. And, though the part I was to play in the tragedy
was to break and re-form the pattern of my whole life, yet
it was a very minor part, little more than a walk on in the
last act. For most of the play had been played already;
there had been love and lust and revenge and fear and
murder – all the blood-tragedy – and now the killer, with
blood enough on his hands, was waiting in the wings for
the lights to go up again, on the last kill that would bring
the final curtain down.
Louise is tall and fair and plump, with long legs, a
pleasant voice, and beautiful hands. She is an artist,
has no temperament to speak of, and is unutterably and
incurably lazy. Before my marriage to Johnny Selbourne,
I had taught at the Alice Private School for Girls in the
West Midlands. Louise was still Art Mistress there, and
owed her continued health and sanity to the habit of
removing herself out of the trouble zone.
When Louise had gone to her own room, I washed,
changed into a white frock with a wide blue belt, and did
my face and hair very slowly. It was still hot, and the late
sun’s rays fell obliquely across the balcony, through the
half-opened shutter, in a shaft of copper-gold. Motionless,
the shadows of the thin leaves traced a pattern across it
as delicate and precise as a Chinese painting on silk, the
image of the tree, brushed in like that by the sun, had a
grace that the tree itself gave no hint of, for it was merely
one of the nameless spindly affairs, parched and dustladen, that struggled up towards the sky from their pots
in the hotel out below.
The courtyard was empty: people were still resting,
or changing, or, if they were the mad English, walking
out in the afternoon sun. A white-painted trellis wall
separated the court on one side from the street, and
beyond it people, mules, cars, occasionally even buses,
moved about their business up and down the narrow
thoroughfare. But inside the vine-covered trellis it was
very still and peaceful.
Then fate took a hand. The first cue I had of it was the
violent shaking of the shadows on the balcony. Then
the ginger cat shot on to my balcony and sent down on
her assailant the look to end all looks, and sat calmly
down to wash. From below a rush and a volley of barking
explained everything.
Then came a crash, and the sound of running feet.
The courtyard, formerly so empty and peaceful, seemed
all of a sudden remarkably full of a boy and a large,
nondescript dog. The latter, with his earnest gaze still on
the balcony, was leaping futilely up and down, pouring
out rage, hatred and excitement, while the boy tried with
one hand to catch and quell him and with the other to lift
one of the tables which had been knocked on to its side.
It was, luckily, not one of those which had been set for
dinner.
The boy looked up and saw me. He straightened, pushed
his hair back from his forehead, and grinned.
“My French isn’t terribly good,” I said. “Do you speak
English?”
He looked immensely pleased.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I am English,” he admitted. ”My
name’s David,” he said. “David Shelley.”
Well, I was into the play.
I judged him to be about thirteen – who was lucky enough
to be enjoying a holiday in the South of France.
Before I could speak again we were interrupted by a
woman who came in through the vine-trellis, from the
street. She was, I guessed, thirty-five. She was also
blonde, tall, and quite the most beautiful woman I had
ever seen. The simple cream dress she wore must have
been one of Dior’s favourite dreams, and the bill for it her
husband’s nightmare.
She did not see me at all, which again was perfectly
natural. She paused a moment when she saw the boy
and the dog, then came forward with a kind of eyecompelling glance which would have turned heads in
Piccadilly on a wet Monday morning.
She paused and spoke. Her voice was pleasant,
her English perfect, but her accent was that of a
Frenchwoman.
“David.”
No reply.
“Mon fils... “
Her son? He did not glance up. “Don’t you know what
time it is? Hurry up and change. It’s nearly dinner time.”
Without a word the boy went into the hotel, trailing
a somewhat subdued dog after him on the end of a
string. His mother stared after him for a moment, with
an expression half puzzled, half exasperated. Then she
gave a smiling little shrug of the shoulders and went into
the hotel after the boy.
I picked my bag up and went downstairs for a drink.
STEWART, Mary. Madam, will you talk?. Hodder and
Stoughton: Coronet Books, 1977, p. 5-14 (Edited).
When the blonde woman came in, why didn’t she see the
narrator? Because:
Ano: 2018
Banca:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos)
Órgão:
Prefeitura de Pará de Minas - MG
Prova:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos) - 2018 - Prefeitura de Pará de Minas - MG - Professor - Inglês |
Q1118365
Inglês
Texto associado
INSTRUCTIONS: This test comprises fifteen questions
taken from the text below. Read the text carefully and
then mark the alternatives that answer the questions or
complete the sentences presented after it.
The whole affair began so very quietly. When I wrote, that
summer, and asked my friend Louise if she would come
with me on a car trip to Provence, I had no idea that I
might be issuing an invitation to danger. And when we
arrived one afternoon, after a hot but leisurely journey, at
the enchanting little walled city of Avignon, we felt in that
mood of pleasant weariness mingled with anticipation
which marks, I believe, the beginning of every normal
holiday.
I even sang to myself as I put the car away, and when
I found they had given me a room with a balcony. And
when, later on, the cat jumped on to my balcony, there
was still nothing to indicate that this was the beginning of
the whole strange, uneasy, tangled business. Or rather,
not the beginning, but my own cue, the point where I
came in. And, though the part I was to play in the tragedy
was to break and re-form the pattern of my whole life, yet
it was a very minor part, little more than a walk on in the
last act. For most of the play had been played already;
there had been love and lust and revenge and fear and
murder – all the blood-tragedy – and now the killer, with
blood enough on his hands, was waiting in the wings for
the lights to go up again, on the last kill that would bring
the final curtain down.
Louise is tall and fair and plump, with long legs, a
pleasant voice, and beautiful hands. She is an artist,
has no temperament to speak of, and is unutterably and
incurably lazy. Before my marriage to Johnny Selbourne,
I had taught at the Alice Private School for Girls in the
West Midlands. Louise was still Art Mistress there, and
owed her continued health and sanity to the habit of
removing herself out of the trouble zone.
When Louise had gone to her own room, I washed,
changed into a white frock with a wide blue belt, and did
my face and hair very slowly. It was still hot, and the late
sun’s rays fell obliquely across the balcony, through the
half-opened shutter, in a shaft of copper-gold. Motionless,
the shadows of the thin leaves traced a pattern across it
as delicate and precise as a Chinese painting on silk, the
image of the tree, brushed in like that by the sun, had a
grace that the tree itself gave no hint of, for it was merely
one of the nameless spindly affairs, parched and dustladen, that struggled up towards the sky from their pots
in the hotel out below.
The courtyard was empty: people were still resting,
or changing, or, if they were the mad English, walking
out in the afternoon sun. A white-painted trellis wall
separated the court on one side from the street, and
beyond it people, mules, cars, occasionally even buses,
moved about their business up and down the narrow
thoroughfare. But inside the vine-covered trellis it was
very still and peaceful.
Then fate took a hand. The first cue I had of it was the
violent shaking of the shadows on the balcony. Then
the ginger cat shot on to my balcony and sent down on
her assailant the look to end all looks, and sat calmly
down to wash. From below a rush and a volley of barking
explained everything.
Then came a crash, and the sound of running feet.
The courtyard, formerly so empty and peaceful, seemed
all of a sudden remarkably full of a boy and a large,
nondescript dog. The latter, with his earnest gaze still on
the balcony, was leaping futilely up and down, pouring
out rage, hatred and excitement, while the boy tried with
one hand to catch and quell him and with the other to lift
one of the tables which had been knocked on to its side.
It was, luckily, not one of those which had been set for
dinner.
The boy looked up and saw me. He straightened, pushed
his hair back from his forehead, and grinned.
“My French isn’t terribly good,” I said. “Do you speak
English?”
He looked immensely pleased.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I am English,” he admitted. ”My
name’s David,” he said. “David Shelley.”
Well, I was into the play.
I judged him to be about thirteen – who was lucky enough
to be enjoying a holiday in the South of France.
Before I could speak again we were interrupted by a
woman who came in through the vine-trellis, from the
street. She was, I guessed, thirty-five. She was also
blonde, tall, and quite the most beautiful woman I had
ever seen. The simple cream dress she wore must have
been one of Dior’s favourite dreams, and the bill for it her
husband’s nightmare.
She did not see me at all, which again was perfectly
natural. She paused a moment when she saw the boy
and the dog, then came forward with a kind of eyecompelling glance which would have turned heads in
Piccadilly on a wet Monday morning.
She paused and spoke. Her voice was pleasant,
her English perfect, but her accent was that of a
Frenchwoman.
“David.”
No reply.
“Mon fils... “
Her son? He did not glance up. “Don’t you know what
time it is? Hurry up and change. It’s nearly dinner time.”
Without a word the boy went into the hotel, trailing
a somewhat subdued dog after him on the end of a
string. His mother stared after him for a moment, with
an expression half puzzled, half exasperated. Then she
gave a smiling little shrug of the shoulders and went into
the hotel after the boy.
I picked my bag up and went downstairs for a drink.
STEWART, Mary. Madam, will you talk?. Hodder and
Stoughton: Coronet Books, 1977, p. 5-14 (Edited).
Why did the narrator guess the blonde woman was
French? Because:
Ano: 2018
Banca:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos)
Órgão:
Prefeitura de Pará de Minas - MG
Prova:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos) - 2018 - Prefeitura de Pará de Minas - MG - Professor - Inglês |
Q1118364
Inglês
Texto associado
INSTRUCTIONS: This test comprises fifteen questions
taken from the text below. Read the text carefully and
then mark the alternatives that answer the questions or
complete the sentences presented after it.
The whole affair began so very quietly. When I wrote, that
summer, and asked my friend Louise if she would come
with me on a car trip to Provence, I had no idea that I
might be issuing an invitation to danger. And when we
arrived one afternoon, after a hot but leisurely journey, at
the enchanting little walled city of Avignon, we felt in that
mood of pleasant weariness mingled with anticipation
which marks, I believe, the beginning of every normal
holiday.
I even sang to myself as I put the car away, and when
I found they had given me a room with a balcony. And
when, later on, the cat jumped on to my balcony, there
was still nothing to indicate that this was the beginning of
the whole strange, uneasy, tangled business. Or rather,
not the beginning, but my own cue, the point where I
came in. And, though the part I was to play in the tragedy
was to break and re-form the pattern of my whole life, yet
it was a very minor part, little more than a walk on in the
last act. For most of the play had been played already;
there had been love and lust and revenge and fear and
murder – all the blood-tragedy – and now the killer, with
blood enough on his hands, was waiting in the wings for
the lights to go up again, on the last kill that would bring
the final curtain down.
Louise is tall and fair and plump, with long legs, a
pleasant voice, and beautiful hands. She is an artist,
has no temperament to speak of, and is unutterably and
incurably lazy. Before my marriage to Johnny Selbourne,
I had taught at the Alice Private School for Girls in the
West Midlands. Louise was still Art Mistress there, and
owed her continued health and sanity to the habit of
removing herself out of the trouble zone.
When Louise had gone to her own room, I washed,
changed into a white frock with a wide blue belt, and did
my face and hair very slowly. It was still hot, and the late
sun’s rays fell obliquely across the balcony, through the
half-opened shutter, in a shaft of copper-gold. Motionless,
the shadows of the thin leaves traced a pattern across it
as delicate and precise as a Chinese painting on silk, the
image of the tree, brushed in like that by the sun, had a
grace that the tree itself gave no hint of, for it was merely
one of the nameless spindly affairs, parched and dustladen, that struggled up towards the sky from their pots
in the hotel out below.
The courtyard was empty: people were still resting,
or changing, or, if they were the mad English, walking
out in the afternoon sun. A white-painted trellis wall
separated the court on one side from the street, and
beyond it people, mules, cars, occasionally even buses,
moved about their business up and down the narrow
thoroughfare. But inside the vine-covered trellis it was
very still and peaceful.
Then fate took a hand. The first cue I had of it was the
violent shaking of the shadows on the balcony. Then
the ginger cat shot on to my balcony and sent down on
her assailant the look to end all looks, and sat calmly
down to wash. From below a rush and a volley of barking
explained everything.
Then came a crash, and the sound of running feet.
The courtyard, formerly so empty and peaceful, seemed
all of a sudden remarkably full of a boy and a large,
nondescript dog. The latter, with his earnest gaze still on
the balcony, was leaping futilely up and down, pouring
out rage, hatred and excitement, while the boy tried with
one hand to catch and quell him and with the other to lift
one of the tables which had been knocked on to its side.
It was, luckily, not one of those which had been set for
dinner.
The boy looked up and saw me. He straightened, pushed
his hair back from his forehead, and grinned.
“My French isn’t terribly good,” I said. “Do you speak
English?”
He looked immensely pleased.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I am English,” he admitted. ”My
name’s David,” he said. “David Shelley.”
Well, I was into the play.
I judged him to be about thirteen – who was lucky enough
to be enjoying a holiday in the South of France.
Before I could speak again we were interrupted by a
woman who came in through the vine-trellis, from the
street. She was, I guessed, thirty-five. She was also
blonde, tall, and quite the most beautiful woman I had
ever seen. The simple cream dress she wore must have
been one of Dior’s favourite dreams, and the bill for it her
husband’s nightmare.
She did not see me at all, which again was perfectly
natural. She paused a moment when she saw the boy
and the dog, then came forward with a kind of eyecompelling glance which would have turned heads in
Piccadilly on a wet Monday morning.
She paused and spoke. Her voice was pleasant,
her English perfect, but her accent was that of a
Frenchwoman.
“David.”
No reply.
“Mon fils... “
Her son? He did not glance up. “Don’t you know what
time it is? Hurry up and change. It’s nearly dinner time.”
Without a word the boy went into the hotel, trailing
a somewhat subdued dog after him on the end of a
string. His mother stared after him for a moment, with
an expression half puzzled, half exasperated. Then she
gave a smiling little shrug of the shoulders and went into
the hotel after the boy.
I picked my bag up and went downstairs for a drink.
STEWART, Mary. Madam, will you talk?. Hodder and
Stoughton: Coronet Books, 1977, p. 5-14 (Edited).
The reason the blonde woman’s dress, according to
the narrator, was Dior’s favourite dream and the bill the
husband’s nightmare is that:
Ano: 2018
Banca:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos)
Órgão:
Prefeitura de Pará de Minas - MG
Prova:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos) - 2018 - Prefeitura de Pará de Minas - MG - Professor - Inglês |
Q1118363
Inglês
Texto associado
INSTRUCTIONS: This test comprises fifteen questions
taken from the text below. Read the text carefully and
then mark the alternatives that answer the questions or
complete the sentences presented after it.
The whole affair began so very quietly. When I wrote, that
summer, and asked my friend Louise if she would come
with me on a car trip to Provence, I had no idea that I
might be issuing an invitation to danger. And when we
arrived one afternoon, after a hot but leisurely journey, at
the enchanting little walled city of Avignon, we felt in that
mood of pleasant weariness mingled with anticipation
which marks, I believe, the beginning of every normal
holiday.
I even sang to myself as I put the car away, and when
I found they had given me a room with a balcony. And
when, later on, the cat jumped on to my balcony, there
was still nothing to indicate that this was the beginning of
the whole strange, uneasy, tangled business. Or rather,
not the beginning, but my own cue, the point where I
came in. And, though the part I was to play in the tragedy
was to break and re-form the pattern of my whole life, yet
it was a very minor part, little more than a walk on in the
last act. For most of the play had been played already;
there had been love and lust and revenge and fear and
murder – all the blood-tragedy – and now the killer, with
blood enough on his hands, was waiting in the wings for
the lights to go up again, on the last kill that would bring
the final curtain down.
Louise is tall and fair and plump, with long legs, a
pleasant voice, and beautiful hands. She is an artist,
has no temperament to speak of, and is unutterably and
incurably lazy. Before my marriage to Johnny Selbourne,
I had taught at the Alice Private School for Girls in the
West Midlands. Louise was still Art Mistress there, and
owed her continued health and sanity to the habit of
removing herself out of the trouble zone.
When Louise had gone to her own room, I washed,
changed into a white frock with a wide blue belt, and did
my face and hair very slowly. It was still hot, and the late
sun’s rays fell obliquely across the balcony, through the
half-opened shutter, in a shaft of copper-gold. Motionless,
the shadows of the thin leaves traced a pattern across it
as delicate and precise as a Chinese painting on silk, the
image of the tree, brushed in like that by the sun, had a
grace that the tree itself gave no hint of, for it was merely
one of the nameless spindly affairs, parched and dustladen, that struggled up towards the sky from their pots
in the hotel out below.
The courtyard was empty: people were still resting,
or changing, or, if they were the mad English, walking
out in the afternoon sun. A white-painted trellis wall
separated the court on one side from the street, and
beyond it people, mules, cars, occasionally even buses,
moved about their business up and down the narrow
thoroughfare. But inside the vine-covered trellis it was
very still and peaceful.
Then fate took a hand. The first cue I had of it was the
violent shaking of the shadows on the balcony. Then
the ginger cat shot on to my balcony and sent down on
her assailant the look to end all looks, and sat calmly
down to wash. From below a rush and a volley of barking
explained everything.
Then came a crash, and the sound of running feet.
The courtyard, formerly so empty and peaceful, seemed
all of a sudden remarkably full of a boy and a large,
nondescript dog. The latter, with his earnest gaze still on
the balcony, was leaping futilely up and down, pouring
out rage, hatred and excitement, while the boy tried with
one hand to catch and quell him and with the other to lift
one of the tables which had been knocked on to its side.
It was, luckily, not one of those which had been set for
dinner.
The boy looked up and saw me. He straightened, pushed
his hair back from his forehead, and grinned.
“My French isn’t terribly good,” I said. “Do you speak
English?”
He looked immensely pleased.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I am English,” he admitted. ”My
name’s David,” he said. “David Shelley.”
Well, I was into the play.
I judged him to be about thirteen – who was lucky enough
to be enjoying a holiday in the South of France.
Before I could speak again we were interrupted by a
woman who came in through the vine-trellis, from the
street. She was, I guessed, thirty-five. She was also
blonde, tall, and quite the most beautiful woman I had
ever seen. The simple cream dress she wore must have
been one of Dior’s favourite dreams, and the bill for it her
husband’s nightmare.
She did not see me at all, which again was perfectly
natural. She paused a moment when she saw the boy
and the dog, then came forward with a kind of eyecompelling glance which would have turned heads in
Piccadilly on a wet Monday morning.
She paused and spoke. Her voice was pleasant,
her English perfect, but her accent was that of a
Frenchwoman.
“David.”
No reply.
“Mon fils... “
Her son? He did not glance up. “Don’t you know what
time it is? Hurry up and change. It’s nearly dinner time.”
Without a word the boy went into the hotel, trailing
a somewhat subdued dog after him on the end of a
string. His mother stared after him for a moment, with
an expression half puzzled, half exasperated. Then she
gave a smiling little shrug of the shoulders and went into
the hotel after the boy.
I picked my bag up and went downstairs for a drink.
STEWART, Mary. Madam, will you talk?. Hodder and
Stoughton: Coronet Books, 1977, p. 5-14 (Edited).
The narrator looked at the boy and thought:
Ano: 2018
Banca:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos)
Órgão:
Prefeitura de Pará de Minas - MG
Prova:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos) - 2018 - Prefeitura de Pará de Minas - MG - Professor - Inglês |
Q1118362
Inglês
Texto associado
INSTRUCTIONS: This test comprises fifteen questions
taken from the text below. Read the text carefully and
then mark the alternatives that answer the questions or
complete the sentences presented after it.
The whole affair began so very quietly. When I wrote, that
summer, and asked my friend Louise if she would come
with me on a car trip to Provence, I had no idea that I
might be issuing an invitation to danger. And when we
arrived one afternoon, after a hot but leisurely journey, at
the enchanting little walled city of Avignon, we felt in that
mood of pleasant weariness mingled with anticipation
which marks, I believe, the beginning of every normal
holiday.
I even sang to myself as I put the car away, and when
I found they had given me a room with a balcony. And
when, later on, the cat jumped on to my balcony, there
was still nothing to indicate that this was the beginning of
the whole strange, uneasy, tangled business. Or rather,
not the beginning, but my own cue, the point where I
came in. And, though the part I was to play in the tragedy
was to break and re-form the pattern of my whole life, yet
it was a very minor part, little more than a walk on in the
last act. For most of the play had been played already;
there had been love and lust and revenge and fear and
murder – all the blood-tragedy – and now the killer, with
blood enough on his hands, was waiting in the wings for
the lights to go up again, on the last kill that would bring
the final curtain down.
Louise is tall and fair and plump, with long legs, a
pleasant voice, and beautiful hands. She is an artist,
has no temperament to speak of, and is unutterably and
incurably lazy. Before my marriage to Johnny Selbourne,
I had taught at the Alice Private School for Girls in the
West Midlands. Louise was still Art Mistress there, and
owed her continued health and sanity to the habit of
removing herself out of the trouble zone.
When Louise had gone to her own room, I washed,
changed into a white frock with a wide blue belt, and did
my face and hair very slowly. It was still hot, and the late
sun’s rays fell obliquely across the balcony, through the
half-opened shutter, in a shaft of copper-gold. Motionless,
the shadows of the thin leaves traced a pattern across it
as delicate and precise as a Chinese painting on silk, the
image of the tree, brushed in like that by the sun, had a
grace that the tree itself gave no hint of, for it was merely
one of the nameless spindly affairs, parched and dustladen, that struggled up towards the sky from their pots
in the hotel out below.
The courtyard was empty: people were still resting,
or changing, or, if they were the mad English, walking
out in the afternoon sun. A white-painted trellis wall
separated the court on one side from the street, and
beyond it people, mules, cars, occasionally even buses,
moved about their business up and down the narrow
thoroughfare. But inside the vine-covered trellis it was
very still and peaceful.
Then fate took a hand. The first cue I had of it was the
violent shaking of the shadows on the balcony. Then
the ginger cat shot on to my balcony and sent down on
her assailant the look to end all looks, and sat calmly
down to wash. From below a rush and a volley of barking
explained everything.
Then came a crash, and the sound of running feet.
The courtyard, formerly so empty and peaceful, seemed
all of a sudden remarkably full of a boy and a large,
nondescript dog. The latter, with his earnest gaze still on
the balcony, was leaping futilely up and down, pouring
out rage, hatred and excitement, while the boy tried with
one hand to catch and quell him and with the other to lift
one of the tables which had been knocked on to its side.
It was, luckily, not one of those which had been set for
dinner.
The boy looked up and saw me. He straightened, pushed
his hair back from his forehead, and grinned.
“My French isn’t terribly good,” I said. “Do you speak
English?”
He looked immensely pleased.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I am English,” he admitted. ”My
name’s David,” he said. “David Shelley.”
Well, I was into the play.
I judged him to be about thirteen – who was lucky enough
to be enjoying a holiday in the South of France.
Before I could speak again we were interrupted by a
woman who came in through the vine-trellis, from the
street. She was, I guessed, thirty-five. She was also
blonde, tall, and quite the most beautiful woman I had
ever seen. The simple cream dress she wore must have
been one of Dior’s favourite dreams, and the bill for it her
husband’s nightmare.
She did not see me at all, which again was perfectly
natural. She paused a moment when she saw the boy
and the dog, then came forward with a kind of eyecompelling glance which would have turned heads in
Piccadilly on a wet Monday morning.
She paused and spoke. Her voice was pleasant,
her English perfect, but her accent was that of a
Frenchwoman.
“David.”
No reply.
“Mon fils... “
Her son? He did not glance up. “Don’t you know what
time it is? Hurry up and change. It’s nearly dinner time.”
Without a word the boy went into the hotel, trailing
a somewhat subdued dog after him on the end of a
string. His mother stared after him for a moment, with
an expression half puzzled, half exasperated. Then she
gave a smiling little shrug of the shoulders and went into
the hotel after the boy.
I picked my bag up and went downstairs for a drink.
STEWART, Mary. Madam, will you talk?. Hodder and
Stoughton: Coronet Books, 1977, p. 5-14 (Edited).
According to the excerpt of the text, the story will include
Ano: 2018
Banca:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos)
Órgão:
Prefeitura de Pará de Minas - MG
Prova:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos) - 2018 - Prefeitura de Pará de Minas - MG - Professor - Inglês |
Q1118361
Inglês
Texto associado
INSTRUCTIONS: This test comprises fifteen questions
taken from the text below. Read the text carefully and
then mark the alternatives that answer the questions or
complete the sentences presented after it.
The whole affair began so very quietly. When I wrote, that
summer, and asked my friend Louise if she would come
with me on a car trip to Provence, I had no idea that I
might be issuing an invitation to danger. And when we
arrived one afternoon, after a hot but leisurely journey, at
the enchanting little walled city of Avignon, we felt in that
mood of pleasant weariness mingled with anticipation
which marks, I believe, the beginning of every normal
holiday.
I even sang to myself as I put the car away, and when
I found they had given me a room with a balcony. And
when, later on, the cat jumped on to my balcony, there
was still nothing to indicate that this was the beginning of
the whole strange, uneasy, tangled business. Or rather,
not the beginning, but my own cue, the point where I
came in. And, though the part I was to play in the tragedy
was to break and re-form the pattern of my whole life, yet
it was a very minor part, little more than a walk on in the
last act. For most of the play had been played already;
there had been love and lust and revenge and fear and
murder – all the blood-tragedy – and now the killer, with
blood enough on his hands, was waiting in the wings for
the lights to go up again, on the last kill that would bring
the final curtain down.
Louise is tall and fair and plump, with long legs, a
pleasant voice, and beautiful hands. She is an artist,
has no temperament to speak of, and is unutterably and
incurably lazy. Before my marriage to Johnny Selbourne,
I had taught at the Alice Private School for Girls in the
West Midlands. Louise was still Art Mistress there, and
owed her continued health and sanity to the habit of
removing herself out of the trouble zone.
When Louise had gone to her own room, I washed,
changed into a white frock with a wide blue belt, and did
my face and hair very slowly. It was still hot, and the late
sun’s rays fell obliquely across the balcony, through the
half-opened shutter, in a shaft of copper-gold. Motionless,
the shadows of the thin leaves traced a pattern across it
as delicate and precise as a Chinese painting on silk, the
image of the tree, brushed in like that by the sun, had a
grace that the tree itself gave no hint of, for it was merely
one of the nameless spindly affairs, parched and dustladen, that struggled up towards the sky from their pots
in the hotel out below.
The courtyard was empty: people were still resting,
or changing, or, if they were the mad English, walking
out in the afternoon sun. A white-painted trellis wall
separated the court on one side from the street, and
beyond it people, mules, cars, occasionally even buses,
moved about their business up and down the narrow
thoroughfare. But inside the vine-covered trellis it was
very still and peaceful.
Then fate took a hand. The first cue I had of it was the
violent shaking of the shadows on the balcony. Then
the ginger cat shot on to my balcony and sent down on
her assailant the look to end all looks, and sat calmly
down to wash. From below a rush and a volley of barking
explained everything.
Then came a crash, and the sound of running feet.
The courtyard, formerly so empty and peaceful, seemed
all of a sudden remarkably full of a boy and a large,
nondescript dog. The latter, with his earnest gaze still on
the balcony, was leaping futilely up and down, pouring
out rage, hatred and excitement, while the boy tried with
one hand to catch and quell him and with the other to lift
one of the tables which had been knocked on to its side.
It was, luckily, not one of those which had been set for
dinner.
The boy looked up and saw me. He straightened, pushed
his hair back from his forehead, and grinned.
“My French isn’t terribly good,” I said. “Do you speak
English?”
He looked immensely pleased.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I am English,” he admitted. ”My
name’s David,” he said. “David Shelley.”
Well, I was into the play.
I judged him to be about thirteen – who was lucky enough
to be enjoying a holiday in the South of France.
Before I could speak again we were interrupted by a
woman who came in through the vine-trellis, from the
street. She was, I guessed, thirty-five. She was also
blonde, tall, and quite the most beautiful woman I had
ever seen. The simple cream dress she wore must have
been one of Dior’s favourite dreams, and the bill for it her
husband’s nightmare.
She did not see me at all, which again was perfectly
natural. She paused a moment when she saw the boy
and the dog, then came forward with a kind of eyecompelling glance which would have turned heads in
Piccadilly on a wet Monday morning.
She paused and spoke. Her voice was pleasant,
her English perfect, but her accent was that of a
Frenchwoman.
“David.”
No reply.
“Mon fils... “
Her son? He did not glance up. “Don’t you know what
time it is? Hurry up and change. It’s nearly dinner time.”
Without a word the boy went into the hotel, trailing
a somewhat subdued dog after him on the end of a
string. His mother stared after him for a moment, with
an expression half puzzled, half exasperated. Then she
gave a smiling little shrug of the shoulders and went into
the hotel after the boy.
I picked my bag up and went downstairs for a drink.
STEWART, Mary. Madam, will you talk?. Hodder and
Stoughton: Coronet Books, 1977, p. 5-14 (Edited).
All adjectives below apply to the narrator’s friend Louise,
EXCEPT:
Ano: 2018
Banca:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos)
Órgão:
Prefeitura de Pará de Minas - MG
Prova:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos) - 2018 - Prefeitura de Pará de Minas - MG - Professor - Inglês |
Q1118360
Inglês
Texto associado
INSTRUCTIONS: This test comprises fifteen questions
taken from the text below. Read the text carefully and
then mark the alternatives that answer the questions or
complete the sentences presented after it.
The whole affair began so very quietly. When I wrote, that
summer, and asked my friend Louise if she would come
with me on a car trip to Provence, I had no idea that I
might be issuing an invitation to danger. And when we
arrived one afternoon, after a hot but leisurely journey, at
the enchanting little walled city of Avignon, we felt in that
mood of pleasant weariness mingled with anticipation
which marks, I believe, the beginning of every normal
holiday.
I even sang to myself as I put the car away, and when
I found they had given me a room with a balcony. And
when, later on, the cat jumped on to my balcony, there
was still nothing to indicate that this was the beginning of
the whole strange, uneasy, tangled business. Or rather,
not the beginning, but my own cue, the point where I
came in. And, though the part I was to play in the tragedy
was to break and re-form the pattern of my whole life, yet
it was a very minor part, little more than a walk on in the
last act. For most of the play had been played already;
there had been love and lust and revenge and fear and
murder – all the blood-tragedy – and now the killer, with
blood enough on his hands, was waiting in the wings for
the lights to go up again, on the last kill that would bring
the final curtain down.
Louise is tall and fair and plump, with long legs, a
pleasant voice, and beautiful hands. She is an artist,
has no temperament to speak of, and is unutterably and
incurably lazy. Before my marriage to Johnny Selbourne,
I had taught at the Alice Private School for Girls in the
West Midlands. Louise was still Art Mistress there, and
owed her continued health and sanity to the habit of
removing herself out of the trouble zone.
When Louise had gone to her own room, I washed,
changed into a white frock with a wide blue belt, and did
my face and hair very slowly. It was still hot, and the late
sun’s rays fell obliquely across the balcony, through the
half-opened shutter, in a shaft of copper-gold. Motionless,
the shadows of the thin leaves traced a pattern across it
as delicate and precise as a Chinese painting on silk, the
image of the tree, brushed in like that by the sun, had a
grace that the tree itself gave no hint of, for it was merely
one of the nameless spindly affairs, parched and dustladen, that struggled up towards the sky from their pots
in the hotel out below.
The courtyard was empty: people were still resting,
or changing, or, if they were the mad English, walking
out in the afternoon sun. A white-painted trellis wall
separated the court on one side from the street, and
beyond it people, mules, cars, occasionally even buses,
moved about their business up and down the narrow
thoroughfare. But inside the vine-covered trellis it was
very still and peaceful.
Then fate took a hand. The first cue I had of it was the
violent shaking of the shadows on the balcony. Then
the ginger cat shot on to my balcony and sent down on
her assailant the look to end all looks, and sat calmly
down to wash. From below a rush and a volley of barking
explained everything.
Then came a crash, and the sound of running feet.
The courtyard, formerly so empty and peaceful, seemed
all of a sudden remarkably full of a boy and a large,
nondescript dog. The latter, with his earnest gaze still on
the balcony, was leaping futilely up and down, pouring
out rage, hatred and excitement, while the boy tried with
one hand to catch and quell him and with the other to lift
one of the tables which had been knocked on to its side.
It was, luckily, not one of those which had been set for
dinner.
The boy looked up and saw me. He straightened, pushed
his hair back from his forehead, and grinned.
“My French isn’t terribly good,” I said. “Do you speak
English?”
He looked immensely pleased.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I am English,” he admitted. ”My
name’s David,” he said. “David Shelley.”
Well, I was into the play.
I judged him to be about thirteen – who was lucky enough
to be enjoying a holiday in the South of France.
Before I could speak again we were interrupted by a
woman who came in through the vine-trellis, from the
street. She was, I guessed, thirty-five. She was also
blonde, tall, and quite the most beautiful woman I had
ever seen. The simple cream dress she wore must have
been one of Dior’s favourite dreams, and the bill for it her
husband’s nightmare.
She did not see me at all, which again was perfectly
natural. She paused a moment when she saw the boy
and the dog, then came forward with a kind of eyecompelling glance which would have turned heads in
Piccadilly on a wet Monday morning.
She paused and spoke. Her voice was pleasant,
her English perfect, but her accent was that of a
Frenchwoman.
“David.”
No reply.
“Mon fils... “
Her son? He did not glance up. “Don’t you know what
time it is? Hurry up and change. It’s nearly dinner time.”
Without a word the boy went into the hotel, trailing
a somewhat subdued dog after him on the end of a
string. His mother stared after him for a moment, with
an expression half puzzled, half exasperated. Then she
gave a smiling little shrug of the shoulders and went into
the hotel after the boy.
I picked my bag up and went downstairs for a drink.
STEWART, Mary. Madam, will you talk?. Hodder and
Stoughton: Coronet Books, 1977, p. 5-14 (Edited).
The narrative shows that the narrator was expecting to:
Ano: 2018
Banca:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos)
Órgão:
Prefeitura de Pará de Minas - MG
Prova:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos) - 2018 - Prefeitura de Pará de Minas - MG - Professor - Inglês |
Q1118359
Inglês
Texto associado
INSTRUCTIONS: This test comprises fifteen questions
taken from the text below. Read the text carefully and
then mark the alternatives that answer the questions or
complete the sentences presented after it.
The whole affair began so very quietly. When I wrote, that
summer, and asked my friend Louise if she would come
with me on a car trip to Provence, I had no idea that I
might be issuing an invitation to danger. And when we
arrived one afternoon, after a hot but leisurely journey, at
the enchanting little walled city of Avignon, we felt in that
mood of pleasant weariness mingled with anticipation
which marks, I believe, the beginning of every normal
holiday.
I even sang to myself as I put the car away, and when
I found they had given me a room with a balcony. And
when, later on, the cat jumped on to my balcony, there
was still nothing to indicate that this was the beginning of
the whole strange, uneasy, tangled business. Or rather,
not the beginning, but my own cue, the point where I
came in. And, though the part I was to play in the tragedy
was to break and re-form the pattern of my whole life, yet
it was a very minor part, little more than a walk on in the
last act. For most of the play had been played already;
there had been love and lust and revenge and fear and
murder – all the blood-tragedy – and now the killer, with
blood enough on his hands, was waiting in the wings for
the lights to go up again, on the last kill that would bring
the final curtain down.
Louise is tall and fair and plump, with long legs, a
pleasant voice, and beautiful hands. She is an artist,
has no temperament to speak of, and is unutterably and
incurably lazy. Before my marriage to Johnny Selbourne,
I had taught at the Alice Private School for Girls in the
West Midlands. Louise was still Art Mistress there, and
owed her continued health and sanity to the habit of
removing herself out of the trouble zone.
When Louise had gone to her own room, I washed,
changed into a white frock with a wide blue belt, and did
my face and hair very slowly. It was still hot, and the late
sun’s rays fell obliquely across the balcony, through the
half-opened shutter, in a shaft of copper-gold. Motionless,
the shadows of the thin leaves traced a pattern across it
as delicate and precise as a Chinese painting on silk, the
image of the tree, brushed in like that by the sun, had a
grace that the tree itself gave no hint of, for it was merely
one of the nameless spindly affairs, parched and dustladen, that struggled up towards the sky from their pots
in the hotel out below.
The courtyard was empty: people were still resting,
or changing, or, if they were the mad English, walking
out in the afternoon sun. A white-painted trellis wall
separated the court on one side from the street, and
beyond it people, mules, cars, occasionally even buses,
moved about their business up and down the narrow
thoroughfare. But inside the vine-covered trellis it was
very still and peaceful.
Then fate took a hand. The first cue I had of it was the
violent shaking of the shadows on the balcony. Then
the ginger cat shot on to my balcony and sent down on
her assailant the look to end all looks, and sat calmly
down to wash. From below a rush and a volley of barking
explained everything.
Then came a crash, and the sound of running feet.
The courtyard, formerly so empty and peaceful, seemed
all of a sudden remarkably full of a boy and a large,
nondescript dog. The latter, with his earnest gaze still on
the balcony, was leaping futilely up and down, pouring
out rage, hatred and excitement, while the boy tried with
one hand to catch and quell him and with the other to lift
one of the tables which had been knocked on to its side.
It was, luckily, not one of those which had been set for
dinner.
The boy looked up and saw me. He straightened, pushed
his hair back from his forehead, and grinned.
“My French isn’t terribly good,” I said. “Do you speak
English?”
He looked immensely pleased.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I am English,” he admitted. ”My
name’s David,” he said. “David Shelley.”
Well, I was into the play.
I judged him to be about thirteen – who was lucky enough
to be enjoying a holiday in the South of France.
Before I could speak again we were interrupted by a
woman who came in through the vine-trellis, from the
street. She was, I guessed, thirty-five. She was also
blonde, tall, and quite the most beautiful woman I had
ever seen. The simple cream dress she wore must have
been one of Dior’s favourite dreams, and the bill for it her
husband’s nightmare.
She did not see me at all, which again was perfectly
natural. She paused a moment when she saw the boy
and the dog, then came forward with a kind of eyecompelling glance which would have turned heads in
Piccadilly on a wet Monday morning.
She paused and spoke. Her voice was pleasant,
her English perfect, but her accent was that of a
Frenchwoman.
“David.”
No reply.
“Mon fils... “
Her son? He did not glance up. “Don’t you know what
time it is? Hurry up and change. It’s nearly dinner time.”
Without a word the boy went into the hotel, trailing
a somewhat subdued dog after him on the end of a
string. His mother stared after him for a moment, with
an expression half puzzled, half exasperated. Then she
gave a smiling little shrug of the shoulders and went into
the hotel after the boy.
I picked my bag up and went downstairs for a drink.
STEWART, Mary. Madam, will you talk?. Hodder and
Stoughton: Coronet Books, 1977, p. 5-14 (Edited).
We, readers of the text, know that the narrator is a woman
because:
Ano: 2018
Banca:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos)
Órgão:
Prefeitura de Pará de Minas - MG
Prova:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos) - 2018 - Prefeitura de Pará de Minas - MG - Professor - Inglês |
Q1118358
Inglês
Texto associado
INSTRUCTIONS: This test comprises fifteen questions
taken from the text below. Read the text carefully and
then mark the alternatives that answer the questions or
complete the sentences presented after it.
The whole affair began so very quietly. When I wrote, that
summer, and asked my friend Louise if she would come
with me on a car trip to Provence, I had no idea that I
might be issuing an invitation to danger. And when we
arrived one afternoon, after a hot but leisurely journey, at
the enchanting little walled city of Avignon, we felt in that
mood of pleasant weariness mingled with anticipation
which marks, I believe, the beginning of every normal
holiday.
I even sang to myself as I put the car away, and when
I found they had given me a room with a balcony. And
when, later on, the cat jumped on to my balcony, there
was still nothing to indicate that this was the beginning of
the whole strange, uneasy, tangled business. Or rather,
not the beginning, but my own cue, the point where I
came in. And, though the part I was to play in the tragedy
was to break and re-form the pattern of my whole life, yet
it was a very minor part, little more than a walk on in the
last act. For most of the play had been played already;
there had been love and lust and revenge and fear and
murder – all the blood-tragedy – and now the killer, with
blood enough on his hands, was waiting in the wings for
the lights to go up again, on the last kill that would bring
the final curtain down.
Louise is tall and fair and plump, with long legs, a
pleasant voice, and beautiful hands. She is an artist,
has no temperament to speak of, and is unutterably and
incurably lazy. Before my marriage to Johnny Selbourne,
I had taught at the Alice Private School for Girls in the
West Midlands. Louise was still Art Mistress there, and
owed her continued health and sanity to the habit of
removing herself out of the trouble zone.
When Louise had gone to her own room, I washed,
changed into a white frock with a wide blue belt, and did
my face and hair very slowly. It was still hot, and the late
sun’s rays fell obliquely across the balcony, through the
half-opened shutter, in a shaft of copper-gold. Motionless,
the shadows of the thin leaves traced a pattern across it
as delicate and precise as a Chinese painting on silk, the
image of the tree, brushed in like that by the sun, had a
grace that the tree itself gave no hint of, for it was merely
one of the nameless spindly affairs, parched and dustladen, that struggled up towards the sky from their pots
in the hotel out below.
The courtyard was empty: people were still resting,
or changing, or, if they were the mad English, walking
out in the afternoon sun. A white-painted trellis wall
separated the court on one side from the street, and
beyond it people, mules, cars, occasionally even buses,
moved about their business up and down the narrow
thoroughfare. But inside the vine-covered trellis it was
very still and peaceful.
Then fate took a hand. The first cue I had of it was the
violent shaking of the shadows on the balcony. Then
the ginger cat shot on to my balcony and sent down on
her assailant the look to end all looks, and sat calmly
down to wash. From below a rush and a volley of barking
explained everything.
Then came a crash, and the sound of running feet.
The courtyard, formerly so empty and peaceful, seemed
all of a sudden remarkably full of a boy and a large,
nondescript dog. The latter, with his earnest gaze still on
the balcony, was leaping futilely up and down, pouring
out rage, hatred and excitement, while the boy tried with
one hand to catch and quell him and with the other to lift
one of the tables which had been knocked on to its side.
It was, luckily, not one of those which had been set for
dinner.
The boy looked up and saw me. He straightened, pushed
his hair back from his forehead, and grinned.
“My French isn’t terribly good,” I said. “Do you speak
English?”
He looked immensely pleased.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I am English,” he admitted. ”My
name’s David,” he said. “David Shelley.”
Well, I was into the play.
I judged him to be about thirteen – who was lucky enough
to be enjoying a holiday in the South of France.
Before I could speak again we were interrupted by a
woman who came in through the vine-trellis, from the
street. She was, I guessed, thirty-five. She was also
blonde, tall, and quite the most beautiful woman I had
ever seen. The simple cream dress she wore must have
been one of Dior’s favourite dreams, and the bill for it her
husband’s nightmare.
She did not see me at all, which again was perfectly
natural. She paused a moment when she saw the boy
and the dog, then came forward with a kind of eyecompelling glance which would have turned heads in
Piccadilly on a wet Monday morning.
She paused and spoke. Her voice was pleasant,
her English perfect, but her accent was that of a
Frenchwoman.
“David.”
No reply.
“Mon fils... “
Her son? He did not glance up. “Don’t you know what
time it is? Hurry up and change. It’s nearly dinner time.”
Without a word the boy went into the hotel, trailing
a somewhat subdued dog after him on the end of a
string. His mother stared after him for a moment, with
an expression half puzzled, half exasperated. Then she
gave a smiling little shrug of the shoulders and went into
the hotel after the boy.
I picked my bag up and went downstairs for a drink.
STEWART, Mary. Madam, will you talk?. Hodder and
Stoughton: Coronet Books, 1977, p. 5-14 (Edited).
The narrator is comparing the story she is about to tell to:
Ano: 2018
Banca:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos)
Órgão:
Prefeitura de Pará de Minas - MG
Prova:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos) - 2018 - Prefeitura de Pará de Minas - MG - Professor - Inglês |
Q1118357
Inglês
Texto associado
INSTRUCTIONS: This test comprises fifteen questions
taken from the text below. Read the text carefully and
then mark the alternatives that answer the questions or
complete the sentences presented after it.
The whole affair began so very quietly. When I wrote, that
summer, and asked my friend Louise if she would come
with me on a car trip to Provence, I had no idea that I
might be issuing an invitation to danger. And when we
arrived one afternoon, after a hot but leisurely journey, at
the enchanting little walled city of Avignon, we felt in that
mood of pleasant weariness mingled with anticipation
which marks, I believe, the beginning of every normal
holiday.
I even sang to myself as I put the car away, and when
I found they had given me a room with a balcony. And
when, later on, the cat jumped on to my balcony, there
was still nothing to indicate that this was the beginning of
the whole strange, uneasy, tangled business. Or rather,
not the beginning, but my own cue, the point where I
came in. And, though the part I was to play in the tragedy
was to break and re-form the pattern of my whole life, yet
it was a very minor part, little more than a walk on in the
last act. For most of the play had been played already;
there had been love and lust and revenge and fear and
murder – all the blood-tragedy – and now the killer, with
blood enough on his hands, was waiting in the wings for
the lights to go up again, on the last kill that would bring
the final curtain down.
Louise is tall and fair and plump, with long legs, a
pleasant voice, and beautiful hands. She is an artist,
has no temperament to speak of, and is unutterably and
incurably lazy. Before my marriage to Johnny Selbourne,
I had taught at the Alice Private School for Girls in the
West Midlands. Louise was still Art Mistress there, and
owed her continued health and sanity to the habit of
removing herself out of the trouble zone.
When Louise had gone to her own room, I washed,
changed into a white frock with a wide blue belt, and did
my face and hair very slowly. It was still hot, and the late
sun’s rays fell obliquely across the balcony, through the
half-opened shutter, in a shaft of copper-gold. Motionless,
the shadows of the thin leaves traced a pattern across it
as delicate and precise as a Chinese painting on silk, the
image of the tree, brushed in like that by the sun, had a
grace that the tree itself gave no hint of, for it was merely
one of the nameless spindly affairs, parched and dustladen, that struggled up towards the sky from their pots
in the hotel out below.
The courtyard was empty: people were still resting,
or changing, or, if they were the mad English, walking
out in the afternoon sun. A white-painted trellis wall
separated the court on one side from the street, and
beyond it people, mules, cars, occasionally even buses,
moved about their business up and down the narrow
thoroughfare. But inside the vine-covered trellis it was
very still and peaceful.
Then fate took a hand. The first cue I had of it was the
violent shaking of the shadows on the balcony. Then
the ginger cat shot on to my balcony and sent down on
her assailant the look to end all looks, and sat calmly
down to wash. From below a rush and a volley of barking
explained everything.
Then came a crash, and the sound of running feet.
The courtyard, formerly so empty and peaceful, seemed
all of a sudden remarkably full of a boy and a large,
nondescript dog. The latter, with his earnest gaze still on
the balcony, was leaping futilely up and down, pouring
out rage, hatred and excitement, while the boy tried with
one hand to catch and quell him and with the other to lift
one of the tables which had been knocked on to its side.
It was, luckily, not one of those which had been set for
dinner.
The boy looked up and saw me. He straightened, pushed
his hair back from his forehead, and grinned.
“My French isn’t terribly good,” I said. “Do you speak
English?”
He looked immensely pleased.
“Well, as a matter of fact, I am English,” he admitted. ”My
name’s David,” he said. “David Shelley.”
Well, I was into the play.
I judged him to be about thirteen – who was lucky enough
to be enjoying a holiday in the South of France.
Before I could speak again we were interrupted by a
woman who came in through the vine-trellis, from the
street. She was, I guessed, thirty-five. She was also
blonde, tall, and quite the most beautiful woman I had
ever seen. The simple cream dress she wore must have
been one of Dior’s favourite dreams, and the bill for it her
husband’s nightmare.
She did not see me at all, which again was perfectly
natural. She paused a moment when she saw the boy
and the dog, then came forward with a kind of eyecompelling glance which would have turned heads in
Piccadilly on a wet Monday morning.
She paused and spoke. Her voice was pleasant,
her English perfect, but her accent was that of a
Frenchwoman.
“David.”
No reply.
“Mon fils... “
Her son? He did not glance up. “Don’t you know what
time it is? Hurry up and change. It’s nearly dinner time.”
Without a word the boy went into the hotel, trailing
a somewhat subdued dog after him on the end of a
string. His mother stared after him for a moment, with
an expression half puzzled, half exasperated. Then she
gave a smiling little shrug of the shoulders and went into
the hotel after the boy.
I picked my bag up and went downstairs for a drink.
STEWART, Mary. Madam, will you talk?. Hodder and
Stoughton: Coronet Books, 1977, p. 5-14 (Edited).
The story is supposed to be about:
Ano: 2018
Banca:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos)
Órgão:
Prefeitura de São João del Rei - MG
Prova:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos) - 2018 - Prefeitura de São João del Rei - MG - Professor de Educação Básica - Língua Inglesa |
Q1109966
Inglês
Texto associado
INSTRUCTION: Now read carefully the next text; then mark the alternatives that answer the questions or complete the sentences in the question.
As it turned out, there were more than enough strawberries for supper. Julie didn’t come back.
The dinner, though delicious, could hardly be said to be festive. It was as if all the accumulated tensions of the last days had gathered that evening at the dining-table, building slowly up like the thunderheads that stood steadily on the horizon outside.
Con had come in early, rather quiet, with watchful eyes, and lines from nostril to chin that I hadn’t noticed before. Grandfather seemed to have recruited his energies with his afternoon rest: his eyes were bright and a little malicious as he glanced round the table, and marked the taut air of waiting that hung over the meal. It was his moment of power, and he knew it.
If it had needed anything to bring the tensions to snapping-point, Julie’s absence provided it. At first it was only assumed that she was late, but, as the meal wore through, and it became apparent that she wasn’t coming, Grandfather started making irritatingly frequent remarks about the forgetfulness and ingratitude of young people, that were intended to sound pathetic, but only managed to sound thoroughly bad-tempered.
Con ate more or less in silence, but a silence so unrelaxed as to be almost aggressive. It was apparent that Grandfather thought so, for he kept casting bright, hard looks under his brows, and once or twice seemed on the verge of the sort of edged and provocative remark with which he had been prodding his great-nephew for days.
I drew what fire I could, chattering shamelessly, and had
the dubious satisfaction of attracting most of the old man’s
attention to myself, some of it so obviously affectionate –
pointedly so – that I saw, once or twice, Con’s glance
cross mine like the flicker of blue steel. Afterwards, I
thought, when he knows, when that restless, torturing
ambition is settled at last, it will be all right …
As Grandfather had predicted, Donald’s presence saved
the day. He seconded my efforts with great gallantry,
making several remarks at least three sentences long;
but he, too, was unable to keep his eyes from the clock,
while Lisa, presiding over a magnificent pair of ducklings
à la Rouennaise, and the strawberries hastily assembled
into whipped cream Chantilly, merely sat unhelpfully
silent and worried, and, in consequence, looking sour.
The end of the meal came, and the coffee, and still no
Julie. We all left the dining-room together.
STEWART, Mary. The Ivy Tree.
Great Britain: Coronet Edition, 1987 (Adapted).
The sentence “The dinner, though delicious, could hardly
be said to be festive” cannot be rewritten as:
Ano: 2018
Banca:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos)
Órgão:
Prefeitura de São João del Rei - MG
Prova:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos) - 2018 - Prefeitura de São João del Rei - MG - Professor de Educação Básica - Língua Inglesa |
Q1109965
Inglês
Texto associado
INSTRUCTION: Now read carefully the next text; then mark the alternatives that answer the questions or complete the sentences in the question.
As it turned out, there were more than enough strawberries for supper. Julie didn’t come back.
The dinner, though delicious, could hardly be said to be festive. It was as if all the accumulated tensions of the last days had gathered that evening at the dining-table, building slowly up like the thunderheads that stood steadily on the horizon outside.
Con had come in early, rather quiet, with watchful eyes, and lines from nostril to chin that I hadn’t noticed before. Grandfather seemed to have recruited his energies with his afternoon rest: his eyes were bright and a little malicious as he glanced round the table, and marked the taut air of waiting that hung over the meal. It was his moment of power, and he knew it.
If it had needed anything to bring the tensions to snapping-point, Julie’s absence provided it. At first it was only assumed that she was late, but, as the meal wore through, and it became apparent that she wasn’t coming, Grandfather started making irritatingly frequent remarks about the forgetfulness and ingratitude of young people, that were intended to sound pathetic, but only managed to sound thoroughly bad-tempered.
Con ate more or less in silence, but a silence so unrelaxed as to be almost aggressive. It was apparent that Grandfather thought so, for he kept casting bright, hard looks under his brows, and once or twice seemed on the verge of the sort of edged and provocative remark with which he had been prodding his great-nephew for days.
I drew what fire I could, chattering shamelessly, and had
the dubious satisfaction of attracting most of the old man’s
attention to myself, some of it so obviously affectionate –
pointedly so – that I saw, once or twice, Con’s glance
cross mine like the flicker of blue steel. Afterwards, I
thought, when he knows, when that restless, torturing
ambition is settled at last, it will be all right …
As Grandfather had predicted, Donald’s presence saved
the day. He seconded my efforts with great gallantry,
making several remarks at least three sentences long;
but he, too, was unable to keep his eyes from the clock,
while Lisa, presiding over a magnificent pair of ducklings
à la Rouennaise, and the strawberries hastily assembled
into whipped cream Chantilly, merely sat unhelpfully
silent and worried, and, in consequence, looking sour.
The end of the meal came, and the coffee, and still no
Julie. We all left the dining-room together.
STEWART, Mary. The Ivy Tree.
Great Britain: Coronet Edition, 1987 (Adapted).
In the sentence “Grandfather started making irritatingly
frequent remarks about the forgetfulness and ingratitude
of young people, that were intended to sound pathetic…”,
the word that refers to
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