专业英语八级（阅读）模拟试卷210
选择题
(1)I went back to the Devon School not long ago, and found it looking oddly newer than when I was a student there fifteen years before. It seemed more tranquil than I remembered it, more perpendicular and strait-laced, with narrower windows and shinier woodwork, as though a coat of paint had been put over everything for better preservation. But, of course, fifteen years before there had been a war going on Perhaps the school wasn\’t as well kept up in those days; perhaps paint along with everything else, had gone to war.
(2)I didn\’t entirely like this glossy new surface, because it made the school look like a museum, and that\’s exactly what it was to me, and what I did not want it to be. In the deep, tacit way in which feeling becomes stronger than thought, I had always felt that the Devon School came into existence the day I entered it, was vibrantly real while I was a student there, and then blinked out like a candle the day I left.
(3)Now here it was after all, preserved by some considerate hand with paint and wax. Preserved along with it, like stale air in an unopened room, was the well known fear which had surrounded and filled those days, so much of it that I hadn\’t even known it was there. Because, unfamiliar with the absence of fear and what that was like, I had not been able to identify its presence.
(4)Looking back now across fifteen years, I could see with great clarity the fear I had lived in, which must mean that in the interval I had succeeded in a very important undertaking: I must have made my escape from it.
(5)I felt fear\’s echo, and along with that I felt the unhinged, uncontrollable joy which had been its accompaniment and opposite face, joy which had broken out sometimes in those days like Northern Lights across black sky.
(6)There were a couple of places now which I wanted to see. Both were fearful sites, and that was why I wanted to see them. So after lunch at the Devon Inn I walked back toward the school. It was a raw, nondescript time of year, toward the end of November, the kind of wet, self-pitying November day when every speck of dirt stands out clearly. Devon luckily had very little of such weather—the icy clamp of winter, or the radiant New Hampshire summers, were more characteristic of it—but this day it blew wet, moody gusts all around me.
(7)I walked along Gilman Street, the best street in town. The houses were as handsome and as unusual as I remembered. Clever modernizations of old Colonial manses, extensions in Victorian wood, capacious Greek Revival temples lined the street, as impressive and just as forbidding as ever. I had rarely seen anyone go into one of them, or anyone playing on a lawn, or even an open window. Today with their failing ivy and stripped, moaning trees the houses looked both more elegant and more lifeless than ever.
(8)Like all old, good schools, Devon did not stand isolated behind walls and gates but emerged naturally from the town which had produced it. So there was no sudden moment of encounter as I approached it; the houses along Gilman Street began to look more defensive, which meant that I was near the school, and then more exhausted, which meant that I was in it.
(9)It was early afternoon and the grounds and buildings were deserted, since everyone was at sports. There
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