Yusupov Oybek Nematjonovich Ahmedova Nigora Shavkatovna

III. State the number and quality of simple metaphors comprising the 
following sustained metaphors. 
1. The stethoscope crept over her back. “Cough ... Breathe”. … Tap, tap. What 
was he hearing? What changes were going on in her body? What was her lung telling 
him through the thick envelope of her flesh, through the wall of her ribs and her 
shoulders? (D. C.) 

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2. The artistic centre of Galloway is Kirkcudbright, I’» the painters form a 
scattered constellation, whose nucleus is in the High Street, and whose outer stars 
twinkle remote hillside cottages, radiating brightness as far as gatehouse of Fleet. (D. 
S.) 
3. The slash of sun on the wall above him slowly knifes down, cuts across his 
chest, becomes a coin on the floor andvanishes. (U) 
4. His countenance beamed with the most sunny smiles; laughter played around 
his lips, and good-humoured merriment twinkled in his eye. (D.) 
5. The music came to him across the now bright, now dull lowly burning 
cigarette of each man’s life, telling him its ancient secret of all men, intangible, 
unfathomable defying long-winded description ... (J.)
6. She had tripped into the meadow to teach the lambs a pretty educational 
dance and found that the lambs were wolves. There was no way out between their 
pressing gray shoulders. She was surrounded by fangs and sneering shoulders. She
could not go on enduring the hidden derision. She wanted to flee. She wanted to hide 
in the generous indifference of cities. (S. L.) 
7. As he walks along Potter Avenue the wires at their silent height strike into 
and through the crowns of the breathing maples. At the next corner, where the water 
from the ice-plant used to come down, sob into a drain, and reappear on the other side 
of the street. Rabbitt crosses over and walks beside the gutter where the water used to 
run coating shallow side of its course with ribbons of green slime waving and waiting 
to slip under your feet and dunk you if you dared walk on them. (U.) 
8. I have been waiting to talk to you – to have you to myself, no less- until I 
could chase my new book out of the house. I thought it never would go. Its last 
moments lingered on and on. It got up, turned again, took off its gloves, again sat 
down, reached the door, came back untj finally M. marked it down, lassoed it with a 
stout strinl and hurled it at Pinker. Since then there’s been an omirous silence. (К. M.) 

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