B is the correct. Because if you look at the problem I can turn it around and see
Answer:
The value of y = 62°
and x = 50°
Step-by-step explanation:
=> 57° + y + 61° = 180°
=> 118° + y = 180°
=> y = 180° - 118
=> y = 62°
Now ,
x° + y° + 67° = 180° { sum of angles of a triangle is 180° }
=> x° + 62° + 68° = 180°
=> x + 130° = 180°
=> x = 180° - 130°
=> x = 50°
Because the only difference between them is size so the basic form of the shape remains, having corresponding sides in proportion.
<h2>Explanation:</h2>
Two triangles are similar if the only difference between them is size. Put another way, the basic form of the shape remains. If this is true, then:
- Corresponding angles are congruent
- Corresponding sides are in proportion
Since you didn't provide any graph, I have attached two similar triangles below. As you can see they are right triangles. As we said, corresponding sides of similar triangles are in proportion, so it is true that:
<h2>Learn more:</h2>
Right and scalene triangles: brainly.com/question/10379190
#LearnWithBrainly
Answer:
D) 18
Step-by-step explanation:
Isolate the variable by dividing each side by factors that don't contain the variable
Commons
“How did Faulkner pull it off?” is a question many a fledgling writer has asked themselves while struggling through a period of apprenticeship like that novelist John Barth describes in his 1999 talk "My Faulkner." Barth “reorchestrated” his literary heroes, he says, “in search of my writerly self... downloading my innumerable predecessors as only an insatiable green apprentice can.” Surely a great many writers can relate when Barth says, “it was Faulkner at his most involuted and incantatory who most enchanted me.” For many a writer, the Faulknerian sentence is an irresistible labyrinth. His syntax has a way of weaving itself into the unconscious, emerging as fair to middling imitation.
While studying at Johns Hopkins University, Barth found himself writing about his native Eastern Shore Maryland in a pastiche style of “middle Faulkner and late Joyce.” He may have won some praise from a visiting young William Styron, “but the finished opus didn’t fly—for one thing, because Faulkner intimately knew his Snopses and Compsons and Sartorises, as I did not know my made-up denizens of the Maryland marsh.” The advice to write only what you know may not be worth much as a universal commandment. But studying the way that Faulkner wrote when he turned to the subjects he knew best provides an object lesson on how powerful a literary resource intimacy can be
