Put in the right prepositions for this sentence;

Interviews may take many forms …business today: … the traditional one-to-one interview, to panel interview where several candidates are interviewed …a panel of interviewers, to’ deep-end' interviews where applicants have to demonstrate how they can cope in actual business situations.

A. at, in by; B. in, from, by; C. on, from, at; D. from, by, with ;


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1. Hello, Miss Bruge. This is Clare Glenn from Glasgow. I’ve had a hard day interviewing three people for you. You see, two of them were just hopeless. Insufficient level of language knowledge, one of them has not professional experience at all. Well, the best was Julia Kelly, I’ll spell it: J-U-L-I-A-K-E-L-L-Y. She is 27, married, no children. Lived in Brussels. Excellent knowledge of English and Spanish (mother is Spanish, father is English), a good command of French. She graduated from London University, economic department. Has a bachelor’s degree in economics. After graduating went to her husband in Brussels. She worked in a lending bank for three years. Several times went on business trips to Ethiopia. A month ago her husband was transferred to London branch of the company. So she needs work in London. She is full of confidence, very sociable, has got a good sense of humour. Her address is 10 Bedford Street, London. The zip is WC2E9HE. Shall I repeat? The phone number is 01714208. Is it all right? Then till tomorrow.


A: Julia Kelly

B. 27

C. London University, economic department, bachelor’s degree

D. English, Spanish – excellent, good command of French

E. a lending bank

F: sociable

G. 01714208

2. He entered my life 20 years ago, leaning against the doorpost of Room 202, where I taught fifth grade. He wore sneakers three sizes too large and checkered pants ripped at the knees. He seemed so nervous that he kept sniffing even when he was introduced himself.

I supposed this scruffy, smiling boy who was from an emigrant family, had no idea that he had been thrown into … I would say, a den of lions, who had never before seen torn pants, and I was afraid that they would make him feel unwelcome. If he noticed someone giggling, he didn’t show it.

Daniel made this undistinguished entrance in the school of a lakeside village which was known for its old money, white colonial homes and brass mailboxes. I wouldn’t say that the villagers were very rich, but at the same time I can’t think of anyone who would be desperately poor. So having introduced himself the boy told us matter-of-factly that his last school had been in a neighbouring county where his family had been picking fruit.

Twenty-five children eyed Daniel suspiciously until the baseball game that afternoon. He hit the ball and with it came a bit of respect from the wardrobe critics of Room 202, that’s how I called my students that day.

Next was Charles’s turn. Charles was the least athletic, most overweight child in the history of fifth grade. This made him an easy target for mockery. After Charles’s second strike, amid the rolled eyes and groans of the class, Daniel edged up and spoke quietly to Charles’s back. I heard him say: “Forget them. You can do it.”

Charles warmed, smiled, stod taller and promptly struck out anyway. But at that precise moment, challenging the social order of this jungle, this den of lions which could be merciless at times, Daniel gently began to change things, and what was more important he began to change us.

By autumn’s end, we had all gravitated to him. Nobody could remain indifferent to his kindness. He taught us all kinds of lessons: how to call a wild turkey, how to tell whether fruit is ripe before that first bite, how to deal with others, even with Charles. Especially with Charles.

The day before Christmas vacation, the students always brought gifts for the teacher. It was a ritual to open each gift and to thank each child for an expensive perfume or scarf or leather wallet.

That afternoon, Daniel walked to my desk and bent close to my ear. Without any emotion he said that they were leaving the next day. As I grasped the news my eyes filled with tears. Then as I regained my composure, he pulled a grey rock from his pocket. Deliberately and with great style, he pushed it gently across my desk.

I sensed that this was something remarkable, but all my practice with perfume and silk had left me pitifully unprepared to respond adequately. Frankly, I was amazed. I guess least of all I had expected to get a rock for a gift. Fixing his eyes on mine he said that it was for me. Then he added that he had polished it up special. I have never forgotten that moment.

Years have passed since then. Each Christmas my daughter asks me to tell this story. It always begins after she picks up the small polished rock that sits on my kitchen table and constantly reminds me of Daniel. Then she nestles herself in my lap and I begin. The first words of the story never vary. “The last time I ever saw Daniel, he gave this rock as a gift. That was a long time ago. He’s a grown-up now”. We wonder where he is and what he has become. My daughter is sure that he has become someone good and asks me to do the end of the story. Again and again she wants to hear a story about a lesson of love and caring learned by a teacher from a boy with nothing and everything to give.

Answers: 1 – 2, 2 – 2, 3 – 1, 4 – 3, 5 – 1, 6 – 3, 7 – 2.

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