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Nana76 [90]
2 years ago
6

HELP ASAP

English
2 answers:
Zepler [3.9K]2 years ago
7 0
It must have rained while i was in the theatre

nignag [31]2 years ago
6 0
It has been raining ...
You might be interested in
An autobiography is a​
Leya [2.2K]

Answer:

Explanation:

An autobiography is an account of a person's life written by that person.

OR,

An autobiography is the biography of oneself narrated by oneself.

5 0
3 years ago
3x+7=x - 15 i dont know how to solve it <br> the answer is -11 but i dont know how to get to that
SSSSS [86.1K]
3x + 7 = x - 15

First, make sure to subtract x from both sides.
3x + 7 - x = -15
Second, simplify 3x - x to get 2x, and then keep the 7.
2x + 7 = -15
Third, subtract 7 from both sides. 
2x = -15 - 7
Fourth, simplify -15 - 7 to get -22.
2x = -22
Fifth, take the 2 and divide both sides by it, keeping the x by itself.
x = - \frac{22}{2}
Sixth, since 11 goes into 2 to get 22, simplify the fraction to 11.
x = -11

Answer: x = -11

5 0
2 years ago
Can someone write me 3 paragraph sotry and illustrate it and it’s also in number 7. Thank you
Anna [14]

Answer:

Granny

As I glanced past the lit Christmas tree in the window, I could see endless rain pouring down and splashing into the large puddles that now filled the road outside my grandparents’ home. I shivered slightly and turned back to watch my grandmother sharpening her pencils with a razor blade and unpacking her watercolor paints and paintbrushes from their special travel box. She was wearing a loose lambswool cardigan that covered the top of her long, gently patterned skirt. Her lightly permed white hair was combed carefully across her head. I moved from the sofa to stand closer to her armchair and watched her rearrange the flower bouquet that she was commissioned to paint for her neighbor. I could smell a mix of the familiar waft of her Chanel N°5 perfume and the gentle but evident odor of her watercolors, but I couldn’t pick out any flowery smells. I looked at the painting, which was nearly complete, and saw her penciled signature at the bottom. It read “B.E. Cartwright” in beautiful printing. The “B.E.” stood for Barbara Eileen, although everyone called her Bobby.

I moved back over to where I had been sitting, in front of the lightweight set of drawers that I was using as a hospital-on-wheels for my stuffed animals and dolls. Before settling down to her painting, Granny had cleared out the drawers for me and helped me wrap my little animals in the dry washcloths that I used as bandages and slings. I cradled my teddy bear, who suffered from a broken leg, in my arms and sang it a lullaby. My dulcet tones clashed somewhat with the Christmas carols that Granny had playing on her little portable boom box. She looked up from her painting, not to tell me to stop singing, but to ask how long I thought that Teddy’s recovery would take. I answered that he was looking a lot better and would be able to leave the hospital soon. After expressing her great relief at this news, she pushed her little painting table away from her armchair and went into the kitchen to refill her teacup.

“Would you like anything, Tasha?” she asked me.

“Hmm,” I thought for a moment. “May I please have some chocolate milk?”

She got out the Nesquik powder and milk, fresh from the milkman that morning, and began with great care to mix the powder with a fork into a little bit of milk. She always started it like this to ensure that the drink had no lumps of powder in it, and then added the rest of the milk to make it exactly as I liked it. She came back into the living room and put my drink on the coffee table for me, watching kindly as I checked my dolly’s temperature. I placed my doll back into the blue, soft bed that Granny had made for him last summer and picked up my drink to sip whilst I watched Granny work.

As I watched, my mind drifted to think of my favorite of her paintings, one she had done as a study in preparation for a scene she was commissioned to paint. It was a picture of pigs in a farmyard, and the study was only half finished, so that the piglets in it were colored and the background was not. A few months before, I had seen it and told her I liked it, so she gave it to me, and it now hung on my wall at home.

I watched closely as Granny finished the subtle coloring of the flower petals and absentmindedly dipped her brush into her cup of tea and lifted her paint water to her mouth, realizing her mistake just before the murky liquid touched her lips. Granny laughed quietly and started to talk about the next trip that she and Papa, our grandpa, were planning to make to the Dales, their favorite part of the north of England. They went quite often with the art club to which Granny belonged, as it was such a beautiful area and had many picturesque scenes to paint. She could see that this was perhaps not the most interesting topic for a seven-year-old, so she turned the rather one-sided conversation to their next visit to see us in Germany. This grabbed my attention much more, and we began to talk excitedly about exactly what we would do when they came and which ones of her collection of teddy bears I wanted her to bring. I, of course, gave her a long list of English chips and chocolates that I hoped they might bring with them for us.

Just as I had listed all of the necessities I could think of, Papa, Mummy, Daddy, and my brother, Brian, and sister, Cece, came back from shopping, soaking wet and in need of a cup of tea or hot chocolate. Granny went to top up the pot while they hurried to change into some dry clothes. Meanwhile, I packed up my little hospital until another day.

Explanation:

I think that this will be able to help you with what you need if it does not just tell me when you can

6 0
3 years ago
While riding the bus to school on his first day of school the narrator of the circuit feels
suter [353]

The narrator feels <em>nervous</em> riding the bus on his first day of school

3 0
3 years ago
Of course it wasn't the same as one of the forty-eight states; still, when we stepped off the President Taft in Honolulu (where
iren2701 [21]

Answer:

ear presides over these memories, a perpetual fear. Of

course no childhood is without its terrors, yet I wonder if I

would have been a less frightened boy if Lindbergh hadn"t

been president or if I hadn"t been the offspring of Jews.

When the first shock came in June of 1940—the nomination for

the presidency of Charles A. Lindbergh, America"s international

aviation hero, by the Republican Convention at Philadelphia—my

father was thirty-nine, an insurance agent with a grade school education,

earning a little under fifty dollars a week, enough for the

basic bills to be paid on time but for little more. My mother—

who"d wanted to go to teachers" college but couldn"t because of the

expense, who"d lived at home working as an office secretary after

finishing high school, who"d kept us from feeling poor during the

worst of the Depression by budgeting the earnings my father

turned over to her each Friday as efficiently as she ran the household

—was thirty-six. My brother, Sandy, a seventh-grader with a

prodigy"s talent for drawing, was twelve, and I, a third-grader a

term ahead of himself—and an embryonic stamp collector inspired

like millions of kids by the country"s foremost philatelist,

President Roosevelt—was seven.

We lived in the second-floor flat of a small two-and-a-half-family house on a

tree-lined street of frame wooden houses with redbrick

stoops, each stoop topped with a gable roof and fronted by a

tiny yard boxed in with a low-cut hedge. The Weequahic neighborhood

had been built on farm lots at the undeveloped southwest

edge of Newark just after World War One, some half dozen of the

streets named, imperially, for victorious naval commanders in the

Spanish-American War and the local movie house called, after

FDR"s fifth cousin—and the country"s twenty-sixth president—

the Roosevelt. Our street, Summit Avenue, sat at the crest of the

neighborhood hill, an elevation as high as any in a port city that

rarely rises a hundred feet above the level of the tidal salt marsh to

the city"s north and east and the deep bay due east of the airport

that bends around the oil tanks of the Bayonne peninsula and

merges there with New York Bay to flow past the Statue of Liberty

and into the Atlantic. Looking west from our bedroom"s rear window

we could sometimes see inland as far as the dark treeline of

the Watchungs, a low-lying mountain range fringed by great estates

and affluent, sparsely populated suburbs, the extreme edge

of the known world—and about eight miles from our house. A

block to the south was the working-class town of Hillside, whose

population was predominantly Gentile. The boundary with Hillside

marked the beginning of Union County, another New Jersey

entirely.

Explanation:

8 0
3 years ago
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