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题型:阅读选择 题类:常考题 难易度:普通

重庆市江津区2019-2020学年九年级上学期英语期末考试试卷

阅读理解

    A poor boy lived in a small town. He sold things from door to door to pay for school. One day, he had only one cent left, and he was hungry. He decided that he would ask for a meal at the next house. However, when a young woman opened the door, the boy was shy, so he just asked for some water. The woman knew he was hungry, so she brought him a large glass of milk. He drank it slowly, and then asked, "How much should I pay for it?" "You needn't pay for it. My mother has told me that it is good to help the people who are in trouble," she replied. The boy said, "Then I thank you from my heart." As the boy left that house, he felt stronger. He knew he had many things to do.

    Many years later, the young woman became ill. The local doctors couldn't save her. Her family had to send her to a big city. When the doctor knew who the woman was, he was excited and did his best to save her life. He succeeded. The woman needed to pay for the medical bill (账单). The doctor learned that she couldn't afford it, so he wrote something down on the medical bill. The woman read the bill, "You paid it with a glass of milk."

(1)、The poor boy sold things from door to door because ________.
A、he needed money to buy toys B、he made money for his family C、he earned money to help the poor D、he had to make money for school
(2)、The woman served the poor boy with ________.
A、a bottle of water B、a good meal C、a glass of milk D、a hamburger
(3)、What happened to the woman many years later?
A、She became a doctor. B、She helped the poor boy again. C、She became ill and was sent to a hospital in a big city. D、She asked the doctor to pay for her bill.
(4)、What can we learn from the passage?
A、The doctor failed to save the woman. B、The local doctors finally saved the woman C、The poor boy paid a glass of milk for the woman. D、The doctor paid back the young woman's kindness.
举一反三
阅读理解

    I live in Mentone, a quiet, simple, restful place, where the rich never come. I met Theophile Magnan, a retired, rich, old man from Lyons yesterday. In the Hotel des Anglais. Theophile looked sad and dreamy, and didn't talk with anybody else. Which brought me back to the past.

A long time ago, Francois Millet. Claude, Carl and I were young artists — very young artists — in fact.

    Yes, Francois Millet. The great French artist, was my friend.

Millet wasn't any greater than we were at that time. He didn't have any fame, even in his own village.

    We were all poor though we had stacks and stacks of as good pictures as anybody in Europe painted. Once a person ever offered four francs for Millet's "Angelus", which he intended to sell for eight.

    It was a fact in human history that a great artist would never be acknowledged* until after he was starved and dead. His pictures climbed to high prices after his death.

    Then we made a decision that one of us must die, to save the others and himself.

    Millet was elected to die.

    During the next three months Millet painted with all his might, enlarged his stock all he could, not pictures, not sketches, studies, parts of studies, fragments of studies, of course, with his cipher *  on them.

    They were the things to be sold.

    Carl went to Paris to start the work of building up Millet's name. Claude and I went to sell Millet's small pictures and to build up his name as well.

    We made Millet a master. I always said to my customer, "I am a fool to sell a picture of Francois Millet's at all, for he is not going to live three months, and when he dies his pictures can't be had for love or money."

    Claude and I took care to spread that little fact as far as we could.

Carl made friends with the correspondents, and got Millet's condition reported to England and all over the continent, and America, and everywhere.

    The sad end came at last, Millet died, not really.  He became Theophile Magnan.

    The pictures went up. There's a man in Paris today who owns seventy Millet pictures. He paid us two million francs for them. Do you still remember the "Angelus"? Carl sold it for twenty—two hundred francs. And as for the bushels of sketches and studies which Millet produced in the last six weeks, well, it would astonish you to know the figure we sell them at nowadays.

    We are no longer artists and Millet dead.

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