Questões de Concurso
Comentadas para prefeitura de pará de minas - mg
Foram encontradas 511 questões
Resolva questões gratuitamente!
Junte-se a mais de 4 milhões de concurseiros!
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 - Analista de Sistemas |
Q1119400
Redes de Computadores
Qual entre os protocolos a seguir realiza o roteamento
na arquitetura TCP/IP?
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 - Analista de Sistemas |
Q1119398
Engenharia de Software
Há um diagrama UML que deve ser utilizado para se apresentar o sistema como um todo ao cliente, sendo importante para se visualizar a funcionalidade do sistema e seus atores.
Assinale a alternativa que apresenta esse diagrama.
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 - Analista de Sistemas |
Q1119397
Banco de Dados
A normalização de tabelas em um banco de dados é um processo importante para sua performance final. Uma das formas normais exige que os atributos sejam atômicos, o que significa que as tabelas não podem ter valores repetidos e nem atributos possuindo mais de um valor.
Assinale a alternativa que apresenta a forma normal que exige apenas que os atributos sejam atômicos.
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 - Analista de Sistemas |
Q1119396
Banco de Dados
Qual função SQL deve ser utilizada para somar uma
coluna após o resultado de uma consulta?
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 - Analista de Sistemas |
Q1119395
Banco de Dados
Qual comando SQL deveria ser utilizado para que a
consulta considere todos os nomes em maiúsculas que
comecem com RONALDO?
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 - Analista de Sistemas |
Q1119393
Programação
Qual o resultado da execução da seguinte linha de comando em Java?
System.out.println(“univers”.substring(1,6));
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 - Analista de Sistemas |
Q1119392
Algoritmos e Estrutura de Dados
A seguir são apresentados alguns resultados do cálculo da complexidade média de alguns algoritmos conhecidos para ordenação de vetores.
Qual entre eles apresenta um bom fator de complexidade em sua execução e deve ser utilizado?
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 |
Q1118371
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).
Mark the correct form for the reported speech of the
sentence found in the text: “Well, as a matter of fact, I am
English,” he admitted.
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 |
Q1118370
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 I wrote, that summer, and asked my friend Louise if she would come with me on a car trip to Provence, [...]
To reproduce the dialogue shown in the sentence above, found in the beginning of the text, we will have:
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 |
Q1118369
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).
Mark the alternative in which the word is NOT formed
with a suffix:
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 |
Q1118367
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 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.”
In the sentence above, we can find many modifiers. Mark the alternative that does NOT represent a modifier in this context.
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 |
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 |
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 Pará de Minas - MG
Prova:
FUNDEP (Gestão de Concursos) - 2018 - Prefeitura de Pará de Minas - MG - Professor - História |
Q1118356
Conhecimentos Gerais
“A Constituição declarava o direito universal não só à saúde, mas também a um sistema integrado de seguridade e assistência social. Dessa forma, todos os trabalhadores, dos setores público e privado, eram contemplados pelo mesmo sistema, cujo financiamento provinha de uma base tributária mais sólida, e o valor das aposentadorias foi atrelado à inflação. [...] O novo compromisso com o direito universal à aposentadoria para os trabalhadores rurais teve um efeito extremamente importante na redução da indigência e pobreza da população. Embora essas aposentadorias rurais a princípio fossem bastante pequenas [...] na Constituição de 1988, o piso da aposentadoria para rurais foi elevado para o salário mínimo. Avalia-se que essas aposentadorias diminuíram não só a pobreza da população, mas também as diferenças sociais no meio rural. Aliás, o Brasil está entre os países em desenvolvimento mais avançados em iniciativas para reduzir a pobreza da população rural. Dessa forma, pela primeira vez no país ser idoso e morar no campo não significava correlação automática com a miséria.”
KLEIN, Herbert; LUNA, Francisco Vidal. População e Sociedade. In REIS, Daniel Aarão (Coord.). História do Brasil Nação. Modernização, Ditadura e Democracia, 1964-2010. v. 5. Rio de Janeiro: Fundación Mapfre e Editora Objetiva, 2014. p. 62-63.
De acordo com o texto, o sistema de aposentadoria consagrado na Constituição de 1988 foi um dos responsáveis por colocar o Brasil entre os países mais avançados em iniciativas para a redução da pobreza da população rural.
Isso deve ser atribuído:
Conheça nossos planos