§ exquisitely well dressed-
§ husband absolutely adored her-
§ gazed in her dazzled-
§ lilac-
§ staggering under an immense-
§ with his pale finger-tips-
§ An exquisite little enamel box-
§ felt a strange pang-
§ little battered creature with enormous eyes-
§ simple, sincere in that voice-
§ peered through the dusk-
§ with a charming, protecting, almost embracing movement-
II Build up the sentences with the words from ex. I .
III Describe the Rosemary using the words from the text.
IV Explain the sentence. What stylistic devices do you find in it? Why the author use it?
They were rich, really rich, not just comfortably well off, which is odious and stuffy and sounds like one's grandparents.
V Translate the paragraph from English into Russian in writing.
Rosemary had been married two years. She had a duck of a boy. No, not Peter - Michael. And her husband absolutely adored her. They were rich, really rich, not just comfortably well off, which is odious and stuffy and sounds like one's grandparents. But if Rosemary wanted to shop she would go to Paris as you and I would go to Bond Street. If she wanted to buy flowers, the car pulled up at that perfect shop in Regent Street, and Rosemary inside the shop just gazed in her dazzled, rather exotic way, and said: “I want those and those and those. Give me four bunches of those. And that jar of roses.
VI What stylistic device do you find in this sentences?
1) The discreet door shut with a click. She was outside on the step, gazing at the winter afternoon. Rain was falling, and with the rain it seemed the dark came too, spinning down like ashes.
2)Well, if you took her to pieces… But why be so cruel as to take anyone to pieces?
VII What is the mood of the text? What words and details help us to feel the mood.
VIII Prepare for the dictation. Learn the words from ex.1.
Lesson 3
I Translate the highlighted sentences from English into Russian.
§ wonderful lacquer furniture, her gold cushions and the primrose and blue rugs-
§ the crushed hat was taken off-
§ She was just going to take a cigarette off the mantelpiece-
§ nourishing-
§ astonishingly pretty-
§ holding the three squeezed in her hand-
II Build up the sentences with the words from ex. I .
III Did you catch the idea of the text? Why the name of the text is “a cup of tea”?
IV What is the main problem in the text?
V Match the letter and the number.
A) A little battered creature with enormous eyes.
B) Thin, birdlike shoulders
C) She pushed the figure in the chair
D) I like you awfully
1) Oxymoron
2) Metonymy
3) Metaphor
4) Irony
5) Simile
V A) Find the translation to the sentences.
*Люди бежали под уродливыми зонтиками.
*Когда ты в последний раз держала хоть крошку во рту?
*Поддавшись порыву она вскрикнула.
*Она вглядывалась в зимнюю полутьму.
*Детка, это совершенно немыслимо.
She was gazing in the winter afternoon.
My darling girl, you are mad.
People hurried under the hateful umbrellas.
And when did you have the last meal?
She turned impulsively saying…
B) Try to translate the following expressions/ sentences in the same way.
I am very sorry madam, I am going to faint, if I don't have something.
I saw a wonderful little box today.
Look again, my child.
VI Retell the story and learn the words from ex.1.
The Wind Blows
SUDDENLY-dreadfully-she wakes up. What has happened? Something dreadful has happened. No-nothing has happened. It is only the wind shaking the house, rattling the windows, banging a piece of iron on the roof and making her bed tremble. Leaves flutter past the window, up and away; down in the avenue a whole newspaper wags in the air like a lost kite and falls, spiked on a pine tree. It is cold. Summer is over-it is autumn-everything is ugly. The carts rattle by, swinging from side to side; two Chinamen lollop along under their wooden yokes with the straining vegetable baskets-their pigtails and blue blouses fly out in the wind. A white dog on three legs yelps past the gate. It is all over! What is? Oh, everything! And she begins to plait her hair with shaking fingers, not daring to look in the glass. Mother is talking to grandmother in the hall.
“A perfect idiot! Imagine leaving anything out on the line in weather like this. . . . Now my best little Teneriffe-work teacloth is simply in ribbons. What is that extraordinary smell? It's the porridge burning. Oh, heavens-this wind!”
She has a music lesson at ten o'clock. At the thought the minor movement of the Beethoven begins to play in her head, the trills long and terrible like little rolling drums. . . . Marie Swainson runs into the garden next door to pick the “chrysanths” before they are ruined. Her skirt flies up above her waist; she tries to beat it down, to tuck it between her legs while she stoops, but it is no use-up it flies. All the trees and bushes beat about her. She picks as quickly as she can, but she is quite distracted. She doesn't mind what she does-she pulls the plants up by the roots and bends and twists them, stamping her foot and swearing.
“For heaven's sake keep the front door shut! Go round to the back,” shouts someone. And then she hears Bogey:
“Mother, you're wanted on the telephone. Telephone, Mother. It's the butcher.”
How hideous life is-revolting, simply revolting. . . . And now her hat-elastic's snapped. Of course it would. She'll wear her old tam and slip out the back way. But Mother has seen.
“Matilda. Matilda. Come back im-me-diately! What on earth have you got on your head? It looks like a tea cosy. And why have you got that mane of hair on your forehead.”
“I can't come back, Mother. I'll be late for my lesson.”
“Come back immediately!”
She won't. She won't. She hates Mother. “Go to hell,” she shouts, running down the road.
In waves, in clouds, in big round whirls the dust comes stinging, and with it little bits of straw and chaff and manure. There is a loud roaring sound from the trees in the gardens, and standing at the bottom of the road outside Mr. Bullen's gate she can hear the sea sob: “Ah! . . . Ah! . . . Ah-h!” But Mr. Bullen's drawing-room is as quiet as a cave. The windows are closed, the blinds half-pulled, and she is not late. The-girl-before-her has just started playing MacDowell's “To an Iceberg.” Mr. Bullen looks over at her and half smiles.
“Sit down,” he says. “Sit over there in the sofa corner, little lady.”
How funny he is. He doesn't exactly laugh at you . . . but there is just something. . . . Oh, how peaceful it is here. She likes this room. It smells of art serge and stale smoke and chrysanthemums . . . there is a big vase of them on the mantelpiece behind the pale photograph of Rubinstein . . . б mon ami Robert Bullen. . . . . Over the black glittering piano hangs “Solitude”-a dark tragic woman draped in white, sitting on a rock, her knees crossed, her chin on her hands.
“No, no!” says Mr. Bullen, and he leans over the other girl, puts his arms over her shoulders and plays the passage for her. The stupid-she's blushing! How ridiculous!
Now the-girl-before-her has gone; the front door slams. Mr. Bullen comes back and walks up and down, very softly, waiting for her. What an extraordinary thing. Her fingers tremble so that she can't undo the knot in the music satchel. It's the wind. . . . And her heart beats so hard she feels it must lift her blouse up and down. Mr. Bullen does not say a word. The shabby red piano seat is long enough for two people to sit side by side. Mr. Bullen sits down by her.
“Shall I begin with scales?” she asks, squeezing her hands together. “I had some arpeggios, too.”
But he does not answer. She doesn't believe he even hears . . . and then suddenly his fresh hand with the ring on it reaches over and opens Beethoven.
“Let's have a little of the old master,” he says.
But why does he speak so kindly-so awfully kindly-and as though they had known each other for years and years and knew everything about each other.
He turns the page slowly. She watches his hand-it is a very nice hand and always looks as though it had just been washed.
“Here we are,” says Mr. Bullen.
Oh, that kind voice-Oh, that minor movement. Here come the little drums. . . .
“Shall I take the repeat?”
“Yes, dear child.”
His voice is far, far too kind. The crotchets and quavers are dancing up and down the stave like little black boys on a fence. Why is he so . . . She will not cry-she has nothing to cry about . . . .
“What is it, dear child?”
Mr. Bullen takes her hands. His shoulder is there-just by her head. She leans on it ever so little, her cheek against the springy tweed.
“Life is so dreadful,” she murmurs, but she does not feel it's dreadful at all. He says something about “waiting” and “marking time” and “that rare thing, a woman,” but she does not hear. It is so comfortable . . . for ever . . .
Suddenly the door opens and in pops Marie Swainson, hours before her time.
“Take the allegretto a little faster,” says Mr. Bullen, and gets up and begins to walk up and down again.
“Sit in the sofa corner, little lady,” he says to Marie.
The wind, the wind. It's frightening to be here in her room by herself. The bed, the mirror, the white jug and basin gleam like the sky outside. It's the bed that is frightening. There it lies, sound asleep. . . . Does Mother imagine for one moment that she is going to darn all those stockings knotted up on the quilt like a coil of snakes? She's not. No, Mother. I do not see why I should. . . . The wind-the wind! There's a funny smell of soot blowing down the chimney. Hasn't anyone written poems to the wind? . . . “I bring fresh flowers to the leaves and showers.” . . . What nonsense.
“Is that you, Bogey?”
“Come for a walk round the esplanade, Matilda. I can't stand this any longer.”
“Right-o. I'll put on my ulster. Isn't it an awful day!” Bogey's ulster is just like hers. Hooking the collar she looks at herself in the glass. Her face is white, they have the same excited eyes and hot lips. Ah, they know those two in the glass. Good-bye, dears; we shall be back soon.
“This is better, isn't it?”
“Hook on,” says Bogey.
They cannot walk fast enough. Their heads bent, their legs just touching, they stride like one eager person through the town, down the asphalt zigzag where the fennel grows wild, and on to the esplanade. It is dusky-just getting dusky. The wind is so strong that they have to fight their way through it, rocking like two old drunkards. All the poor little pahutukawas on the esplanade are bent to the ground.
“Come on! Come on! Let's get near.”
Over by the breakwater the sea is very high. They pull off their hats and her hair blows across her mouth, tasting of salt. The sea is so high that the waves do not break at all; they thump against the rough stone wall and suck up the weedy, dripping steps. A fine spray skims from the water right across the esplanade. They are covered with drops; the inside of her mouth tastes wet and cold.
Bogey's voice is breaking. When he speaks he rushes up and down the scale. It's funny-it makes you laugh-and yet it just suits the day. The wind carries their voices-away fly the sentences like narrow ribbons.
“Quicker! Quicker!”
It is getting very dark. In the harbour the coal hulks show two lights-one high on a mast, and one from the stern.
“Look, Bogey. Look over there.”
A big black steamer with a long loop of smoke streaming, with the portholes lighted, with lights everywhere, is putting out to sea. The wind does not stop her; she cuts through the waves, making for the open gate between the pointed rocks that leads to . . . It's the light that makes her look so awfully beautiful and mysterious. . . . They are on board leaning over the rail arm in arm.
“ . . . Who are they?”
“ . . . Brother and sister.”
“Look, Bogey, there's the town. Doesn't it look small? There's the post office clock chiming for the last time. There's the esplanade where we walked that windy day. Do you remember? I cried at my music lesson that day-how many years ago! Good-bye, little island, good-bye. . . . “
Now the dark stretches a wing over the tumbling water. They can't see those two any more. Good-bye, good-bye. Don't forget. . . . But the ship is gone, now.
Lesson 4
I Translate the highlighted sentences from English into Russian.
§ to lollop-
§ waist-
§ forehead-
§ How ridiculous!-
§ extraordinary thing-
§ murmur-
§ covered with drops-
II Build up the sentences with the words from ex. I .
III Match the letter and the number.
1) SUDDENLY-dreadfully-she wakes up.
2)What has happened? Something dreadful has happened. No-nothing has happened.
3) excited eyes and hot lips.
A. epithets
B. epiphora
C. inversion
IV Find the synonyms from the text to the following words
1) squeal
2)unusual
3) savage
V Discuss the paragraph. Why does the author use dashes between the syllables?
“Matilda. Matilda. Come back im-me-diately! What on earth have you got on your head? It looks like a tea cosy. And why have you got that mane of hair on your forehead.”
VI What is the main idea of the text? Is this text about a music?
VII Prepare for the dictation. Learn the words from ex.1.
Lesson 5
I Work in groups.
1)Find all the words from the text which are connected with the topic music.
2) Do you like to listen to the music? Prepare your presentation about your favorite music, singer, genre or smth else.
Sun and Moon
IN the afternoon the chairs came, a whole big cart full of little gold ones with their legs in the air. And then the flowers came. When you stared down from the balcony at the people carrying them the flower pots looked like funny awfully nice hats nodding up the path.
Moon thought they were hats. She said: “Look. There's a man wearing a palm on his head.” But she never knew the difference between real things and not real ones.
There was nobody to look after Sun and Moon. Nurse was helping Annie alter Mother's dress which was much-too-long-and-tight-under-the-arms and Mother was running all over the house and telephoning Father to be sure not to forget things. She only had time to say: “Out of my way, children!”
They kept out of her way-at any rate Sun did. He did so hate being sent stumping back to the nursery. It didn't matter about Moon. If she got tangled in people's legs they only threw her up and shook her till she squeaked. But Sun was too heavy for that. He was so heavy that the fat man who came to dinner on Sundays used to say: “Now, young man, let's try to lift you.” And then he'd put his thumbs under Sun's arms and groan and try and give it up at last saying: “He's a perfect little ton of bricks!
Nearly all the furniture was taken out of the dining-room. The big piano was put in a corner and then there came a row of flower pots and then there came the goldy chairs. That was for the concert. When Sun looked in a white faced man sat at the piano-not playing, but banging at it and then looking inside. He had a bag of tools on the piano and he had stuck his hat on a statue against the wall. Sometimes he just started to play and then he jumped up again and looked inside. Sun hoped he wasn't the concert.
But of course the place to be in was the kitchen. There was a man helping in a cap like a blancmange, and their real cook, Minnie, was all red in the face and laughing. Not cross at all. She gave them each an almond finger and lifted them up on to the flour bin so that they could watch the wonderful things she and the man were making for supper. Cook brought in the things and he put them on dishes and trimmed them. Whole fishes, with their heads and eyes and tails still on, he sprinkled with red and green and yellow bits; he made squiggles all over the jellies, he stuck a collar on a ham and put a very thin sort of a fork in it; he dotted almonds and tiny round biscuits on the creams. And more and more things kept coming.
“Ah, but you haven't seen the ice pudding,” said Cook. “Come along.” Why was she being so nice, thought Sun as she gave them each a hand. And they looked into the refrigerator.
Oh! Oh! Oh! It was a little house. It was a little pink house with white snow on the roof and green windows and a brown door and stuck in the door there was a nut for a handle.
When Sun saw the nut he felt quite tired and had to lean against Cook.
“Let me touch it. Just let me put my finger on the roof,” said Moon, dancing. She always wanted to touch all the food. Sun didn't.
“Now, my girl, look sharp with the table,” said Cook as the housemaid came in.
“It's a picture, Min,” said Nellie. “Come along and have a look.” So they all went into the dining-room. Sun and Moon were almost frightened. They wouldn't go up to the table at first; they just stood at the door and made eyes at it. It wasn't real night yet but the blinds were down in the dining-room and the lights turned on-and all the lights were red roses. Red ribbons and bunches of roses tied up the table at the corners. In the middle was a lake with rose petals floating on it.
“That's where the ice pudding is to be,” said Cook.
Two silver lions with wings had fruit on their backs, and the salt cellars were tiny birds drinking out of basins.
And all the winking glasses and shining plates and sparkling knives and forks-and all the food. And the little red table napkins made into roses . . . .
“Are people going to eat the food?” asked Sun.
“I should just think they were,” laughed Cook, laughing with Nellie. Moon laughed, too; she always did the same as other people. But Sun didn't want to laugh. Round and round he walked with his hands behind his back. Perhaps he never would have stopped if Nurse hadn't called suddenly: “Now then, children. It's high time you were washed and dressed.” And they were marched off to the nursery.
While they were being unbuttoned Mother looked in with a white thing over her shoulders; she was rubbing stuff on her face.
“I'll ring for them when I want them, Nurse, and then they can just come down and be seen and go back again,” said she.
Sun was undressed first, nearly to his skin, and dressed again in a white shirt with red and white daisies speckled on it, breeches with strings at the sides and braces that came over, white socks and red shoes.
“Now you're in your Russian costume,” said Nurse, flattening down his fringe.
“Am I?” said Sun.
“Yes. Sit quiet in that chair and watch your little sister.”
Moon took ages. When she had her socks put on she pretended to fall back on the bed and waved her legs at Nurse as she always did, and every time Nurse tried to make her curls with a finger and a wet brush she turned round and asked Nurse to show her the photo of her brooch or something like that. But at last she was finished too. Her dress stuck out, with fur on it, all white; there was even fluffy stuff on the legs of her drawers. Her shoes were white with big blobs on them.
“There you are, my lamb,” said Nurse. “And you look like a sweet little cherub of a picture of a powder-puff!” Nurse rushed to the door. “Ma'am, one moment.”
Mother came in again with half her hair down.
“Oh,” she cried. “What a picture!”
“Isn't she,” said Nurse.
And Moon held out her skirts by the tips and dragged one of her feet. Sun didn't mind people not noticing him-much . . . .
After that they played clean tidy games up at the table while Nurse stood at the door, and when the carriages began to come and the sound of laughter and voices and soft rustlings came from down below she whispered: “Now then, children, stay where you are.” Moon kept jerking the table cloth so that it all hung down her side and Sun hadn't any-and then she pretended she didn't do it on purpose.
At last the bell rang. Nurse pounced at them with the hair brush, flattened his fringe, made her bow stand on end, and joined their hands together.
“Down you go!” she whispered.
And down they went. Sun did feel silly holding Moon's hand like that but Moon seemed to like it. She swung her arm and the bell on her coral bracelet jingled.
At the drawing-room door stood Mother fanning herself with a black fan. The drawing-room was full of sweet smelling, silky, rustling ladies and men in black with funny tails on their coats-like beetles. Father was among them, talking very loud, and rattling something in his pocket.
“What a picture!” cried the ladies. “Oh, the ducks! Oh, the lambs! Oh, the sweets! Oh, the pets!”
All the people who couldn't get at Moon kissed Sun, and a skinny old lady with teeth that clicked said: “Such a serious little poppet,” and rapped him on the head with something hard.
Sun looked to see if the same concert was there, but he was gone. Instead, a fat man with a pink head leaned over the piano talking to a girl who held a violin at her ear.
There was only one man that Sun really liked. He was a little grey man, with long grey whiskers, who walked about by himself. He came up to Sun and rolled his eyes in a very nice way and said: “Hullo, my lad.” Then he went away. But soon he came back again and said: “Fond of dogs?” Sun said: “Yes.” But then he went away again and though Sun looked for him everywhere he couldn't find him. He thought perhaps he'd gone outside to fetch in a puppy.
“Good night, my precious babies,” said Mother, folding them up in her bare arms. “Fly up to your little nest.”