Управление финансами
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Управление финансами
егэ ЕГЭ 2017    Психологические тесты Интересные тесты   Изменения 2016 Изменения 2016
папка Главная » ЕГЭ 2017 » Английский язык » Чтение
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Прочитайте текст и выполните задания А15–А21. В каждом задании обведите цифру 1, 2, 3 или 4, соответствующую выбранному вами варианту ответа.

The Slob’s Holiday

My husband and I went to Reno for our holiday last year. “Isn’t that place where people go to get a quickie divorce?”asked my second son? ‘Yes’, I said, trying to look enigmatic and interesting. ‘You are not getting divorced, are you?’ he asked bluntly. ‘No,’ I said, ’we are going to an outdoor pursuit trade fair. The children sighed with relief and slouched away, muttering things like ‘boring’. I call them children, but they are all grown up. My eldest son has started to develop fine lines around his eyes – fledgling crow’s feet. A terrible sight for any parent to see. Anyway, the piece isn’t about children. It’s about holidays.

The first thing to be said about holidays is that anybody who can afford one should be grateful. The second thing is that planning holidays can be hard work. In our household it starts with somebody muttering, ’I suppose we ought to think about a holiday.’ This remark is usually made in July and is received glumly, as if the person making it has said ‘I suppose we ought to think about the Bolivian balance of payment problems.’

Nothing much happens for a week and then the potential holiday-makers are rounded up and made to consult their diaries. Hospital appointments are taken into consideration, as are important things to do with work. But other highlights on the domestic calendar, such as the cat’s birthday, are swept aside and eventually two weeks are found. The next decision is the most painful: where?

We travel abroad to work quite a lot but we return tired and weary, so the holiday we are planning is a slob’s holiday: collapse on a sunbed, read a book until the sun goes down, stagger back to hotel room, shower, change into glad rags, eat well, wave good-bye to teenagers, have a last drink on hotel terrace, go to bed and then lie awake and wait for hotel waiters to bring the teenagers from the disco.

I never want to be guided around another monument, as long as I live. I do not want to be told how many bricks it took to build it. I have a short attention span for such details. I do not want to attend a ‘folk evening’ ever, ever again. The kind where men with their trousers tucked into their socks wave handkerchiefs in the direction of women wearing puff-sleeved blouses, long skirts and headscarves.

I also want to live dangerously and get brown. I want my doughy English skin change from white sliced to wheat germ. I like the simple pleasure of removing my watch strap and gazing at the patch of virgin skin beneath.

I don’t want to make new friends – on holidays or in general; I can’t manage the ones I have at home. I do not want to mix with the locals and I have no wish to go into their homes. I do not welcome tourists who come to Leicester into my home. Why should the poor locals in Holidayland be expected to? It’s bad enough that we monopolize their beaches, clog their pavements and spend an hour in a shop choosing a sunhat that costs the equivalent of 75 pence.

So, the slob’s holiday has several essential requirements: a hotel on a sunny beach, good food, a warm sea, nightlife for the teenagers, a big crowd to get lost in, and the absence of mosquitoes.

As I write, we are at the planning stage. We have looked through all the holiday brochures, but they are full of references to ‘hospitable locals’, ‘folk nights’, ‘deserted beaches’, and ‘interesting historical sights’. Not our cup of tea, or glass of sangria, at all.

When the need for holiday planning is first announced in the narrator’ family, it

    1) 

is regarded as an important political issue.

    2) 

is met with enthusiasm by all the family.

    3) 

seems like an impossible task.

    4) 

is openly ignored.



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Прочитайте текст и выполните задания А15–А21. В каждом задании обведите цифру 1, 2, 3 или 4, соответствующую выбранному вами варианту ответа.

The Slob’s Holiday

My husband and I went to Reno for our holiday last year. “Isn’t that place where people go to get a quickie divorce?”asked my second son? ‘Yes’, I said, trying to look enigmatic and interesting. ‘You are not getting divorced, are you?’ he asked bluntly. ‘No,’ I said, ’we are going to an outdoor pursuit trade fair. The children sighed with relief and slouched away, muttering things like ‘boring’. I call them children, but they are all grown up. My eldest son has started to develop fine lines around his eyes – fledgling crow’s feet. A terrible sight for any parent to see. Anyway, the piece isn’t about children. It’s about holidays.

The first thing to be said about holidays is that anybody who can afford one should be grateful. The second thing is that planning holidays can be hard work. In our household it starts with somebody muttering, ’I suppose we ought to think about a holiday.’ This remark is usually made in July and is received glumly, as if the person making it has said ‘I suppose we ought to think about the Bolivian balance of payment problems.’

Nothing much happens for a week and then the potential holiday-makers are rounded up and made to consult their diaries. Hospital appointments are taken into consideration, as are important things to do with work. But other highlights on the domestic calendar, such as the cat’s birthday, are swept aside and eventually two weeks are found. The next decision is the most painful: where?

We travel abroad to work quite a lot but we return tired and weary, so the holiday we are planning is a slob’s holiday: collapse on a sunbed, read a book until the sun goes down, stagger back to hotel room, shower, change into glad rags, eat well, wave good-bye to teenagers, have a last drink on hotel terrace, go to bed and then lie awake and wait for hotel waiters to bring the teenagers from the disco.

I never want to be guided around another monument, as long as I live. I do not want to be told how many bricks it took to build it. I have a short attention span for such details. I do not want to attend a ‘folk evening’ ever, ever again. The kind where men with their trousers tucked into their socks wave handkerchiefs in the direction of women wearing puff-sleeved blouses, long skirts and headscarves.

I also want to live dangerously and get brown. I want my doughy English skin change from white sliced to wheat germ. I like the simple pleasure of removing my watch strap and gazing at the patch of virgin skin beneath.

I don’t want to make new friends – on holidays or in general; I can’t manage the ones I have at home. I do not want to mix with the locals and I have no wish to go into their homes. I do not welcome tourists who come to Leicester into my home. Why should the poor locals in Holidayland be expected to? It’s bad enough that we monopolize their beaches, clog their pavements and spend an hour in a shop choosing a sunhat that costs the equivalent of 75 pence.

So, the slob’s holiday has several essential requirements: a hotel on a sunny beach, good food, a warm sea, nightlife for the teenagers, a big crowd to get lost in, and the absence of mosquitoes.

As I write, we are at the planning stage. We have looked through all the holiday brochures, but they are full of references to ‘hospitable locals’, ‘folk nights’, ‘deserted beaches’, and ‘interesting historical sights’. Not our cup of tea, or glass of sangria, at all.

To find a two-week slot for a holiday potential holiday-makers have to

    1) 

negotiate the optimum period for travel.

    2) 

cancel prior business appointments.

    3) 

re-schedule individual summer plans.

    4) 

make a list of the things to be taken into account.

Прочитайте текст и выполните задания А15–А21. В каждом задании обведите цифру 1, 2, 3 или 4, соответствующую выбранному вами варианту ответа.

The Slob’s Holiday

My husband and I went to Reno for our holiday last year. “Isn’t that place where people go to get a quickie divorce?”asked my second son? ‘Yes’, I said, trying to look enigmatic and interesting. ‘You are not getting divorced, are you?’ he asked bluntly. ‘No,’ I said, ’we are going to an outdoor pursuit trade fair. The children sighed with relief and slouched away, muttering things like ‘boring’. I call them children, but they are all grown up. My eldest son has started to develop fine lines around his eyes – fledgling crow’s feet. A terrible sight for any parent to see. Anyway, the piece isn’t about children. It’s about holidays.

The first thing to be said about holidays is that anybody who can afford one should be grateful. The second thing is that planning holidays can be hard work. In our household it starts with somebody muttering, ’I suppose we ought to think about a holiday.’ This remark is usually made in July and is received glumly, as if the person making it has said ‘I suppose we ought to think about the Bolivian balance of payment problems.’

Nothing much happens for a week and then the potential holiday-makers are rounded up and made to consult their diaries. Hospital appointments are taken into consideration, as are important things to do with work. But other highlights on the domestic calendar, such as the cat’s birthday, are swept aside and eventually two weeks are found. The next decision is the most painful: where?

We travel abroad to work quite a lot but we return tired and weary, so the holiday we are planning is a slob’s holiday: collapse on a sunbed, read a book until the sun goes down, stagger back to hotel room, shower, change into glad rags, eat well, wave good-bye to teenagers, have a last drink on hotel terrace, go to bed and then lie awake and wait for hotel waiters to bring the teenagers from the disco.

I never want to be guided around another monument, as long as I live. I do not want to be told how many bricks it took to build it. I have a short attention span for such details. I do not want to attend a ‘folk evening’ ever, ever again. The kind where men with their trousers tucked into their socks wave handkerchiefs in the direction of women wearing puff-sleeved blouses, long skirts and headscarves.

I also want to live dangerously and get brown. I want my doughy English skin change from white sliced to wheat germ. I like the simple pleasure of removing my watch strap and gazing at the patch of virgin skin beneath.

I don’t want to make new friends – on holidays or in general; I can’t manage the ones I have at home. I do not want to mix with the locals and I have no wish to go into their homes. I do not welcome tourists who come to Leicester into my home. Why should the poor locals in Holidayland be expected to? It’s bad enough that we monopolize their beaches, clog their pavements and spend an hour in a shop choosing a sunhat that costs the equivalent of 75 pence.

So, the slob’s holiday has several essential requirements: a hotel on a sunny beach, good food, a warm sea, nightlife for the teenagers, a big crowd to get lost in, and the absence of mosquitoes.

As I write, we are at the planning stage. We have looked through all the holiday brochures, but they are full of references to ‘hospitable locals’, ‘folk nights’, ‘deserted beaches’, and ‘interesting historical sights’. Not our cup of tea, or glass of sangria, at all.

The slob’s holiday is the type of holiday for people, who

    1) 

do not want to go on holiday abroad.

    2) 

go on holiday with teenagers.

    3) 

do not like public life.

    4) 

prefer peaceful relaxing holidays.




Прочитайте текст и выполните задания А15–А21. В каждом задании обведите цифру 1, 2, 3 или 4, соответствующую выбранному вами варианту ответа.

The Slob’s Holiday

My husband and I went to Reno for our holiday last year. “Isn’t that place where people go to get a quickie divorce?”asked my second son? ‘Yes’, I said, trying to look enigmatic and interesting. ‘You are not getting divorced, are you?’ he asked bluntly. ‘No,’ I said, ’we are going to an outdoor pursuit trade fair. The children sighed with relief and slouched away, muttering things like ‘boring’. I call them children, but they are all grown up. My eldest son has started to develop fine lines around his eyes – fledgling crow’s feet. A terrible sight for any parent to see. Anyway, the piece isn’t about children. It’s about holidays.

The first thing to be said about holidays is that anybody who can afford one should be grateful. The second thing is that planning holidays can be hard work. In our household it starts with somebody muttering, ’I suppose we ought to think about a holiday.’ This remark is usually made in July and is received glumly, as if the person making it has said ‘I suppose we ought to think about the Bolivian balance of payment problems.’

Nothing much happens for a week and then the potential holiday-makers are rounded up and made to consult their diaries. Hospital appointments are taken into consideration, as are important things to do with work. But other highlights on the domestic calendar, such as the cat’s birthday, are swept aside and eventually two weeks are found. The next decision is the most painful: where?

We travel abroad to work quite a lot but we return tired and weary, so the holiday we are planning is a slob’s holiday: collapse on a sunbed, read a book until the sun goes down, stagger back to hotel room, shower, change into glad rags, eat well, wave good-bye to teenagers, have a last drink on hotel terrace, go to bed and then lie awake and wait for hotel waiters to bring the teenagers from the disco.

I never want to be guided around another monument, as long as I live. I do not want to be told how many bricks it took to build it. I have a short attention span for such details. I do not want to attend a ‘folk evening’ ever, ever again. The kind where men with their trousers tucked into their socks wave handkerchiefs in the direction of women wearing puff-sleeved blouses, long skirts and headscarves.

I also want to live dangerously and get brown. I want my doughy English skin change from white sliced to wheat germ. I like the simple pleasure of removing my watch strap and gazing at the patch of virgin skin beneath.

I don’t want to make new friends – on holidays or in general; I can’t manage the ones I have at home. I do not want to mix with the locals and I have no wish to go into their homes. I do not welcome tourists who come to Leicester into my home. Why should the poor locals in Holidayland be expected to? It’s bad enough that we monopolize their beaches, clog their pavements and spend an hour in a shop choosing a sunhat that costs the equivalent of 75 pence.

So, the slob’s holiday has several essential requirements: a hotel on a sunny beach, good food, a warm sea, nightlife for the teenagers, a big crowd to get lost in, and the absence of mosquitoes.

As I write, we are at the planning stage. We have looked through all the holiday brochures, but they are full of references to ‘hospitable locals’, ‘folk nights’, ‘deserted beaches’, and ‘interesting historical sights’. Not our cup of tea, or glass of sangria, at all.

When the narrator says ‘I also want to live dangerously’, she means

    1) 

getting lost in the crowd.

    2) 

going sightseeing without a guide.

    3) 

choosing herself the parties to go to.

    4) 

lying long hours in the sun on the beach.


Прочитайте текст и выполните задания А15–А21. В каждом задании обведите цифру 1, 2, 3 или 4, соответствующую выбранному вами варианту ответа.

The Slob’s Holiday

My husband and I went to Reno for our holiday last year. “Isn’t that place where people go to get a quickie divorce?”asked my second son? ‘Yes’, I said, trying to look enigmatic and interesting. ‘You are not getting divorced, are you?’ he asked bluntly. ‘No,’ I said, ’we are going to an outdoor pursuit trade fair. The children sighed with relief and slouched away, muttering things like ‘boring’. I call them children, but they are all grown up. My eldest son has started to develop fine lines around his eyes – fledgling crow’s feet. A terrible sight for any parent to see. Anyway, the piece isn’t about children. It’s about holidays.

The first thing to be said about holidays is that anybody who can afford one should be grateful. The second thing is that planning holidays can be hard work. In our household it starts with somebody muttering, ’I suppose we ought to think about a holiday.’ This remark is usually made in July and is received glumly, as if the person making it has said ‘I suppose we ought to think about the Bolivian balance of payment problems.’

Nothing much happens for a week and then the potential holiday-makers are rounded up and made to consult their diaries. Hospital appointments are taken into consideration, as are important things to do with work. But other highlights on the domestic calendar, such as the cat’s birthday, are swept aside and eventually two weeks are found. The next decision is the most painful: where?

We travel abroad to work quite a lot but we return tired and weary, so the holiday we are planning is a slob’s holiday: collapse on a sunbed, read a book until the sun goes down, stagger back to hotel room, shower, change into glad rags, eat well, wave good-bye to teenagers, have a last drink on hotel terrace, go to bed and then lie awake and wait for hotel waiters to bring the teenagers from the disco.

I never want to be guided around another monument, as long as I live. I do not want to be told how many bricks it took to build it. I have a short attention span for such details. I do not want to attend a ‘folk evening’ ever, ever again. The kind where men with their trousers tucked into their socks wave handkerchiefs in the direction of women wearing puff-sleeved blouses, long skirts and headscarves.

I also want to live dangerously and get brown. I want my doughy English skin change from white sliced to wheat germ. I like the simple pleasure of removing my watch strap and gazing at the patch of virgin skin beneath.

I don’t want to make new friends – on holidays or in general; I can’t manage the ones I have at home. I do not want to mix with the locals and I have no wish to go into their homes. I do not welcome tourists who come to Leicester into my home. Why should the poor locals in Holidayland be expected to? It’s bad enough that we monopolize their beaches, clog their pavements and spend an hour in a shop choosing a sunhat that costs the equivalent of 75 pence.

So, the slob’s holiday has several essential requirements: a hotel on a sunny beach, good food, a warm sea, nightlife for the teenagers, a big crowd to get lost in, and the absence of mosquitoes.

As I write, we are at the planning stage. We have looked through all the holiday brochures, but they are full of references to ‘hospitable locals’, ‘folk nights’, ‘deserted beaches’, and ‘interesting historical sights’. Not our cup of tea, or glass of sangria, at all.

The main reason the narrator doesn’t want to mix up with locals is because she

    1) 

doesn’t let tourists to her house at Leicester.

    2) 

doesn’t want to add to their inconveniencies.

    3) 

is afraid to make friends with local people.

    4) 

values her own privacy above all.


Установите соответствие между заголовками 1–8 и текстами A–G. Занесите свои ответы в таблицу. Используйте каждую цифрутолько один раз.  В задании один заголовок лишний.

1. 

New rules to follow

2. 

New perspectives

3. 

Perfect for a quiet holiday

4. 

Land of nature wonders

   
5. 

A visit to the zoo

6. 

Perfect for an active holiday

7. 

Difficult start

8. 

Bad for animals

A. 

The mountains of Scotland (we call them the Highlands) are а wild and beautiful part of Europe. A golden eagle flies over the mountains. A deer walks through the silence of the forest. Salmon and trout swim in the clean, pure water of the rivers. Some say that not only fish swim in the deep water of Loch Ness. Speak to the people living by the Loch. Each person has a story of the monster, and some have photographs.

B. 

Tresco is a beautiful island with no cars, crowds or noise – just flowers, birds, long sandy beaches and the Tresco Abbey Garden. John and Wendy Pyatt welcome you to the Island Hotel, famous for delicious food, comfort and brilliant service. You will appreciate superb accommodation, free saunas and the indoor swimming pool.

C. 

The Camel and Wildlife Safari is a unique mixture of the traditional and modern. Kenya’s countryside suits the Safari purposes exceptionally well. Tourists will have a chance to explore the bush country near Samburu, to travel on a camel back or to sleep out under the stars. Modern safari vehicles are always available for those who prefer comfort.

D. 

Arrival can be the hardest part of a trip. It is late, you are road-weary, and everything is new and strange. You need an affordable place to sleep, something to eat and drink, and probably a way to get around. But in general, it’s a wonderful trip, full of wonderful and unusual places. Whether it is the first stop on a trip or the fifth city visited, every traveller feels a little overwhelmed stepping onto a new street in a new city.

E. 

No zoo has enough money to provide basic habitats or environments for all the species they keep. Most animals are put in a totally artificial environment, isolated from everything they would meet in their natural habitat. Many will agree that this isolation is harmful to the most of zoo inhabitants, it can even amount to cruelty.

F. 

A new London Zoo Project is a ten year project to secure the future for the Zoo and for many endangered animals. The plan has been devised by both animal and business experts to provide world-leading accommodation for all our animals, to more fully engage and inform people about conservation issues, to redesign certain aspects of Zoo layout.

G. 

Leave-no-trace camping is an increasingly popular approach to travel in wilderness areas. As the term suggests, the goal is for the camper to leave as little impact as possible on the place he is visiting. One of its mottos is “Take nothing but pictures. Leave nothing but footprints.” Its simplest and most fundamental rule is: pack it in, pack it out, but it goes beyond that.


Прочитайте текст и заполните пропуски A–F частями предложений, обозначенными цифрами 1–7. Одна из частей в списке 1–7 лишняя.Занесите цифру, обозначающую соответствующую часть предложения, в таблицу.

 

London Zoo

London Zoo is one of the most important zoos in the world. There are over 12,000 animals at London Zoo and __________! Its main concern is to breed threatened animals in captivity. This means we might be able to restock the wild, should disaster ever befall the wild population.

Partula Snail, Red Crowned Crane, Arabian Oryx, Golden Lion Tamarin, Persian Leopard, Asiatic Lion and Sumatran Tiger are just some of the species London Zoo is helping to save.

That is why it is so important that we fight to preserve the habitats that these animals live in, as well as eliminate other dangers B __________. But we aim to make your day at London Zoo a fun and memorable time, __________.

In the Ambika Paul Children’s Zoo, for instance, youngsters can learn a new love and appreciation for animals D __________. They can also learn how to care for favourite pets in the Pet Care Centre.

Then there are numerous special Highlight events E __________  unforgettable pony rides to feeding times and spectacular animal displays. You will get to meet keepers and ask them what you are interested in about the animals they care for, __________.

Whatever you decide, you will have a great day. We have left no stone unturned to make sure you do!

  
1. 

because they see and touch them close up

2. 

such as hunting exotic animals and selling furs

3. 

as well as the ins and outs of being a keeper at London Zoo

4. 

that is not counting every ant in the colony

5. 

which demand much time and effort

6. 

which take place every day, from

7. 

despite the serious side to our work

 

Прочитайте текст и выполните задания А15–А21. В каждом задании укажите номер выбранного вами варианта ответа.

REUNION

The last time I saw my father was in Grand Central Station. I was going from my grandmother's in the Adirondacks to a cottage on the Cape that my mother had rented, and I wrote my father that I would be in New York between trains for an hour and a half, and asked if we could have lunch together. His secretary wrote to say that he would meet me at the information booth at noon, and at twelve o'clock sharp I saw him coming through the crowd.

He was a stranger to me – my mother divorced him three years ago and I hadn't been with him since – but as soon as I saw him I felt that he was my father, my flesh and blood, my future and my doom. I knew that when I was grown I would be something like him; I would have to plan my campaigns within his limitations. He was a big, good-looking man, and I was terribly happy to see him again.

He struck me on the back and shook my hand. "Hi, Charlie," he said. "Hi, boy. I'd like to take you up to my club, but it's in the Sixties, and if you have to catch an early train I guess we'd better get something to eat around here." He put his arm around me, and I smelled my father the way my mother sniffs a rose. It was a rich compound of whiskey, after-shave lotion, shoe polish, woollens, and the rankness of a mature male. I hoped that someone would see us together. I wished that we could be photographed. I wanted some record of our having been together.

We went out of the station and up a side street to a restaurant. It was still early, and the place was empty. The bartender was quarrelling with a delivery boy, and there was one very old waiter in a red coat down by the kitchen door. We sat down, and my father hailed the waiter in a loud voice. "Kellner!" he shouted. "Garcon! You!" His boisterousness in the empty restaurant seemed out of place. "Could we have a little service here!" he shouted. Then he clapped his hands. This caught the waiter's attention, and he shuffled over to our table.

"Were you clapping your hands at me?" he asked.

"Calm down, calm down," my father said. "It isn't too much to ask of you – if it wouldn't be too much above and beyond the call of duty, we would like a couple of Beefeater Gibsons."

"I don't like to be clapped at," the waiter said.

"I should have brought my whistle," my father said. "I have a whistle that is audible only to the ears of old waiters. Now, take out your little pad and your little pencil and see if you can get this straight: two Beefeater Gibsons. Repeat after me: two Beefeater Gibsons."

"I think you'd better go somewhere else," the waiter said quietly.

"That," said my father, "is one of the most brilliant suggestions I have ever heard. Come on, Charlie."

I followed my father out of that restaurant into another. He was not so boisterous this time. Our drinks came, and he cross-questioned me about the baseball season. He then struck the edge of his empty glass with his knife and began shouting again. "Garcon! You! Could we trouble you to bring us two more of the same."

"How old is the boy?" the waiter asked.

"That," my father said, "is none of your business."

"I’m sorry, sir," the waiter said, "but I won’t serve the boy another drink."

"Well, I have some news for you," my father said. "I have some very interesting news for you. This doesn’t happen to be the only restaurant in New York. They’ve opened another on the corner. Come on, Charlie."

He paid the bill, and I followed him out of that restaurant into another …

The narrator was looking forward to meeting with his father because he

    1) 

expected to get a valuable present from him.

    2) 

missed the feeling of being with him.

    3) 

wanted to stay with him in New York.

    4) 

hoped that his parents would get back together.


Прочитайте текст и выполните задания А15–А21. В каждом задании укажите номер выбранного вами варианта ответа.

REUNION

The last time I saw my father was in Grand Central Station. I was going from my grandmother's in the Adirondacks to a cottage on the Cape that my mother had rented, and I wrote my father that I would be in New York between trains for an hour and a half, and asked if we could have lunch together. His secretary wrote to say that he would meet me at the information booth at noon, and at twelve o'clock sharp I saw him coming through the crowd.

He was a stranger to me – my mother divorced him three years ago and I hadn't been with him since – but as soon as I saw him I felt that he was my father, my flesh and blood, my future and my doom. I knew that when I was grown I would be something like him; I would have to plan my campaigns within his limitations. He was a big, good-looking man, and I was terribly happy to see him again.

He struck me on the back and shook my hand. "Hi, Charlie," he said. "Hi, boy. I'd like to take you up to my club, but it's in the Sixties, and if you have to catch an early train I guess we'd better get something to eat around here." He put his arm around me, and I smelled my father the way my mother sniffs a rose. It was a rich compound of whiskey, after-shave lotion, shoe polish, woollens, and the rankness of a mature male. I hoped that someone would see us together. I wished that we could be photographed. I wanted some record of our having been together.

We went out of the station and up a side street to a restaurant. It was still early, and the place was empty. The bartender was quarrelling with a delivery boy, and there was one very old waiter in a red coat down by the kitchen door. We sat down, and my father hailed the waiter in a loud voice. "Kellner!" he shouted. "Garcon! You!" His boisterousness in the empty restaurant seemed out of place. "Could we have a little service here!" he shouted. Then he clapped his hands. This caught the waiter's attention, and he shuffled over to our table.

"Were you clapping your hands at me?" he asked.

"Calm down, calm down," my father said. "It isn't too much to ask of you – if it wouldn't be too much above and beyond the call of duty, we would like a couple of Beefeater Gibsons."

"I don't like to be clapped at," the waiter said.

"I should have brought my whistle," my father said. "I have a whistle that is audible only to the ears of old waiters. Now, take out your little pad and your little pencil and see if you can get this straight: two Beefeater Gibsons. Repeat after me: two Beefeater Gibsons."

"I think you'd better go somewhere else," the waiter said quietly.

"That," said my father, "is one of the most brilliant suggestions I have ever heard. Come on, Charlie."

I followed my father out of that restaurant into another. He was not so boisterous this time. Our drinks came, and he cross-questioned me about the baseball season. He then struck the edge of his empty glass with his knife and began shouting again. "Garcon! You! Could we trouble you to bring us two more of the same."

"How old is the boy?" the waiter asked.

"That," my father said, "is none of your business."

"I’m sorry, sir," the waiter said, "but I won’t serve the boy another drink."

"Well, I have some news for you," my father said. "I have some very interesting news for you. This doesn’t happen to be the only restaurant in New York. They’ve opened another on the corner. Come on, Charlie."

He paid the bill, and I followed him out of that restaurant into another …

The narrator’s request to meet was accepted by his father

    1) 

with great pleasure.

    2) 

unwillingly.

    3) 

in business-like manner.

    4) 

with much hope and expectation.

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Управление финансами

важное

1. ФСС 2016
2. Льготы 2016
3. Налоговый вычет 2016
4. НДФЛ 2016
5. Земельный налог 2016
6. УСН 2016
7. Налоги ИП 2016
8. Налог с продаж 2016
9. ЕНВД 2016
10. Налог на прибыль 2016
11. Налог на имущество 2016
12. Транспортный налог 2016
13. ЕГАИС
14. Материнский капитал в 2016 году
15. Потребительская корзина 2016
16. Российская платежная карта "МИР"
17. Расчет отпускных в 2016 году
18. Расчет больничного в 2016 году
19. Производственный календарь на 2016 год
20. Повышение пенсий в 2016 году
21. Банкротство физ лиц
22. Коды бюджетной классификации на 2016 год
23. Бюджетная классификация КОСГУ на 2016 год
24. Как получить квартиру от государства
25. Как получить земельный участок бесплатно


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