大师作文网2014年12月6日sat机经
来源：学生作业帮 编辑：大师作文网作业帮 分类：英语作业 时间：2024/11/13 20:58:08
2014年12月6日sat机经
阅读,语法为主
阅读,语法为主
SAT阅读机经预测,希望给考生参考.
It is 9:00 A.M.,and the house,after the flurry of de-partures,of frantic "I can't find my socks" and "Mom,he took my lunch money" and "I swear I'll leave you kids behind if you're not in the car in exactly one minute," has settled into its quiet daytime rhythms.
Busy in the kitchen,Mrs.Dutta has recovered her spirits.Holding on to grudges is too exhausting,and besides,the kitchen -- sunlight spilling across its countertops while the refrigerator hums reassuringly in the background -- is her favorite place.
Mrs.Dutta hums too as she fries potatoes for alu dum.Her voice is rusty and slightly off- key.In India she would never have ventured to sing,but with everyone gone the house is too quiet,all that silence pressing down on her like the heel of a giant hand,and the TV voices,with their strange foreign accents,are no help at all.As the potatoes turn golden- brown,she permits herself a moment of nostalgia for her Calcutta kitchen -- the new gas stove she bought with the birthday money Sagar sent,the scoured- shiny brass pots stacked by the meat safe,the window with the lotus-pattern grille through which she could look down on white- uniformed children playing cricket after school.The mouthwatering smell of ginger and chili paste,ground fresh by Reba,the maid,and,in the evening,strong black Assam tea brewing in the kettle when Mrs.Basu came by to visit.In her mind she writes to Mrs.Basu:Oh,Roma,I miss it all so much.Sometimes I feel that someone has reached in and torn out a handful of my chest.
It is 9:00 A.M.,and the house,after the flurry of de-partures,of frantic "I can't find my socks" and "Mom,he took my lunch money" and "I swear I'll leave you kids behind if you're not in the car in exactly one minute," has settled into its quiet daytime rhythms.
Busy in the kitchen,Mrs.Dutta has recovered her spirits.Holding on to grudges is too exhausting,and besides,the kitchen -- sunlight spilling across its countertops while the refrigerator hums reassuringly in the background -- is her favorite place.
Mrs.Dutta hums too as she fries potatoes for alu dum.Her voice is rusty and slightly off- key.In India she would never have ventured to sing,but with everyone gone the house is too quiet,all that silence pressing down on her like the heel of a giant hand,and the TV voices,with their strange foreign accents,are no help at all.As the potatoes turn golden- brown,she permits herself a moment of nostalgia for her Calcutta kitchen -- the new gas stove she bought with the birthday money Sagar sent,the scoured- shiny brass pots stacked by the meat safe,the window with the lotus-pattern grille through which she could look down on white- uniformed children playing cricket after school.The mouthwatering smell of ginger and chili paste,ground fresh by Reba,the maid,and,in the evening,strong black Assam tea brewing in the kettle when Mrs.Basu came by to visit.In her mind she writes to Mrs.Basu:Oh,Roma,I miss it all so much.Sometimes I feel that someone has reached in and torn out a handful of my chest.