Answer: Have all group members take notes then combined them together into a paper or small paragraphs.
Explanation:Because i know its write
How would you personally feel if you were to know someone was going to get captured? Think about that and chose the most wise answer would you be angry? Scared? But also it needs to have more context because I don’t know Butch Cassidy and his character or her. You can cross of amused for sure though.
Answer:
Narrative story:
This strange, grawky house has the expression of someone being stared at, someone holding his breath underwater, hushed and expectant; this house is ashamed of itself, ashamed of its fantastic mansard rooftop, ashamed of its shoulder and large, awkward hands. But the man behind the easel is relentless; he is brutal as sunlight, and believes the house have done something horrible to the people who once lived here because now it is desperately empty, it must have done something to the sky because the sky, too, is utterly vacant and devoid of meaning. There are no trees or shrubs anywhere - the house must have done something against the earth. All that is present is a single pair of tracks straightening into distance. No trains pass. now stranger return to this place daily until the house suspect that the man, too, is desolate, desolate and even ashamed. soon the hose starts to stare frankly at the man. and somehow the empty white canvas slowly takes on the expression of someone who is unnerverd, someone holding his breath underwater. And then one day the man disappears.
The door creaked and a rectangle of light fell onto the magazine that I was reading. I looked up to a boy who had come into the lobby was a stranger, about nineteen, tall and thin.
"Looking for someone?" I asked.
"No," the boy said. His long fingers trembled as they fumbled with the buttons of his coat.
"Well, may I help you with something?"
"No." The boy dropped his coat onto the worn tweed sofa and sat down slowly. In the light from the window his pale cheeks gleamed as if wet.
He's sick, I thought, while walking over to him. A narrow hand reached out and seized my wrist, cold, strong fingers twining around my arm like vines or snakes. I try to fight the impulse to pull away, looking down instead into the boy's troubled, grey eyes.
