题目内容
In the evenings, they go to the mall. Once a week or more. Sometimes, they even leave the dinner dishes in the sink so they will have enough time to finish all the errands. The father never comes—he hates shopping, especially with his wife. Instead, he stays at home to read the paper and put around his study: To do things that the other dads must be doing in the evenings. To summon the sand to come rushing in and plug up his ears with its roaring silence. Meanwhile, the mother arms herself with returns from the last trip. Her two young daughters forget games of flashlight tag or favorite TV shows and strap on tennis shoes and seatbelts： and they’re off. On summer nights, when it’s light until after the fireflies arrive, the air is heavy and moist. The daughters unroll their windows and stick the whole of their heads out into the slate blue sky, feeling full force the sweaty, honey suckle air. In the cold mall, their rubber soles squeak on shiny linoleum squares. The younger daughter tries not to step on any cracks. The older daughter keeps a straight-ahead gaze; her sullen eyes count down each errand as it’s done. It is not until the third or, on a good night, the fourth errand that the trouble begins. The girls have wandered over to examine rainbow beach towels, perhaps, or some kind of pink ruffled bedspread. The mother’s voice finds them from a few aisles away. Dinner squirms in the daughters’ stomachs. Now comes that what-if-I-threw-up-right-this-second or where-is-a-rabbit-hole-for-me-to-fall-into feeling that they get around this time of evening, at the mall. The older one shakes her ponytails at the younger one. Her blue eyes hiss the careful-don’t-cry warning, but the younger one’s cheeks only get redder. Toe by toe, the daughters edge towards housewares where they finger lace placemats or trace patterns in the store carpet with sneakered soles. The mother’s voice still finds them, shaking with rage. Finally, heels slapping in her sandals, she strides towards them and then keeps going. They follow, catching her word-trail, "Stupid people. Stupid，stupid，stupid. I HATE stupid people." It’s the little skips between steps the younger one takes to keep up with her mother’s tong, angry legs. It’s the car door slamming and the seat belt buckle yanked into place. It’s those things that tell the daughters how the next few hours will go. In the car, the older one sighs and grinds her back teeth. The younger one feels her face get hotter and her eyes start to swell. She stares at an ice cream stain on the back of the front seat and sees a pony, a flower, and a fairy in that splash of chocolate mint chip. The mother begins on both at once. "And when we get home, if your shoes are still in the TV room, I’m throwing them out. Same for books. No more shit house. No more lazy, ungrateful kids." And so on and so on through the black velvet sky and across the Hershey bar roads. On into the house with a slap or two. "You’ll be happy when I’m in my grave," wails at them as they put on their nightgowns and brush their teeth. The older one sets a stone jaw and the younger one tries not to sob as she opens wide, engulfing her small hand and scrubbing each and every molar. The father is not spared. The volcanic mother saves some up just for him. "Fucking lousy husband. Do-nothing father. "And on like that for an hour or so more. Then in the darkest part of the night, it’s bare feet and cool hands on a small sweaty forehead. Kisses and caresses and "Sorry Mom got a little mad." Promises for that pink ruffled bedspread or maybe a new stuffed animal. Long fingers rake through the younger one’s curls. "Tomorrow evening, we’ll get you some kind of treat. Right after dinner, we’ll go to the mall.\ Which of the following adjectives does NOT describe the mother
查看答案
搜索结果不匹配？点我反馈
更多问题
In the evenings, they go to the mall. Once a week or more. Sometimes, they even leave the dinner dishes in the sink so they will have enough time to finish all the errands. The father never comes—he hates shopping, especially with his wife. Instead, he stays at home to read the paper and put around his study: To do things that the other dads must be doing in the evenings. To summon the sand to come rushing in and plug up his ears with its roaring silence. Meanwhile, the mother arms herself with returns from the last trip. Her two young daughters forget games of flashlight tag or favorite TV shows and strap on tennis shoes and seatbelts： and they’re off. On summer nights, when it’s light until after the fireflies arrive, the air is heavy and moist. The daughters unroll their windows and stick the whole of their heads out into the slate blue sky, feeling full force the sweaty, honey suckle air. In the cold mall, their rubber soles squeak on shiny linoleum squares. The younger daughter tries not to step on any cracks. The older daughter keeps a straight-ahead gaze; her sullen eyes count down each errand as it’s done. It is not until the third or, on a good night, the fourth errand that the trouble begins. The girls have wandered over to examine rainbow beach towels, perhaps, or some kind of pink ruffled bedspread. The mother’s voice finds them from a few aisles away. Dinner squirms in the daughters’ stomachs. Now comes that what-if-I-threw-up-right-this-second or where-is-a-rabbit-hole-for-me-to-fall-into feeling that they get around this time of evening, at the mall. The older one shakes her ponytails at the younger one. Her blue eyes hiss the careful-don’t-cry warning, but the younger one’s cheeks only get redder. Toe by toe, the daughters edge towards housewares where they finger lace placemats or trace patterns in the store carpet with sneakered soles. The mother’s voice still finds them, shaking with rage. Finally, heels slapping in her sandals, she strides towards them and then keeps going. They follow, catching her word-trail, "Stupid people. Stupid，stupid，stupid. I HATE stupid people." It’s the little skips between steps the younger one takes to keep up with her mother’s tong, angry legs. It’s the car door slamming and the seat belt buckle yanked into place. It’s those things that tell the daughters how the next few hours will go. In the car, the older one sighs and grinds her back teeth. The younger one feels her face get hotter and her eyes start to swell. She stares at an ice cream stain on the back of the front seat and sees a pony, a flower, and a fairy in that splash of chocolate mint chip. The mother begins on both at once. "And when we get home, if your shoes are still in the TV room, I’m throwing them out. Same for books. No more shit house. No more lazy, ungrateful kids." And so on and so on through the black velvet sky and across the Hershey bar roads. On into the house with a slap or two. "You’ll be happy when I’m in my grave," wails at them as they put on their nightgowns and brush their teeth. The older one sets a stone jaw and the younger one tries not to sob as she opens wide, engulfing her small hand and scrubbing each and every molar. The father is not spared. The volcanic mother saves some up just for him. "Fucking lousy husband. Do-nothing father. "And on like that for an hour or so more. Then in the darkest part of the night, it’s bare feet and cool hands on a small sweaty forehead. Kisses and caresses and "Sorry Mom got a little mad." Promises for that pink ruffled bedspread or maybe a new stuffed animal. Long fingers rake through the younger one’s curls. "Tomorrow evening, we’ll get you some kind of treat. Right after dinner, we’ll go to the mall.\ The word "squirms’ in the fourth paragraph probably means
In 1981 Kenji Urada, a 37-year-old Japanese factory worker, climbed over a safety fence at a Kawasaki plant to carry out some maintenance work on a robot. In his haste, he failed to switch the robot off properly. Unable to sense him, the robot’s powerful hydraulic arm kept on working and accidentally pushed the engineer into a grinding machine. His death made Urada the first recorded victim to die at the hands of a robot. This astounding industrial accident would not have happened in a world in which robot behavior was governed by the Three Laws of Robotics drawn up by Isaac Asimov, a science fiction writer. The laws appeared in I, Robot, a book of short stories published in 1950 that inspired a Hollywood film. But decades later the laws, designed to prevent robots from harming people either through action or inaction, remain in the realm of fiction. With robots now poised to emerge from their industrial cages and to move into homes and workplaces, roboticists are concerned about the safety implications beyond the factory floor. To address these concerns, leading robot experts have come together to try to find ways to prevent robots from harming people. "Security, safety and sex are the big concerns," says Henrik Christensen, chairman of the European Robotics Network at the Swedish Royal Institute of Technology in Stockholm, and one of the organisers of the new roboethics group. Should robots that are strong enough or heavy enough to crush people be allowed into homes Should robotic sex dolls resembling children be legally allowed These questions may seem esoteric but in the next few years they will become increasingly relevant, says Dr. Christensen. According to the United Nations Economic Commission for Europe’s World Robotics Survey, in 2002 the number of domestic and service robots more than tripled, nearly outstripping their industrial counterparts. Japanese industrial firms are racing to build humanoid robots to act as domestic helpers for the elderly, and South Korea has set a goal that 100K of households should have domestic robots by 2020. In light of all this, it is crucial that we start to think about safety and ethical guidelines now, says Dr. Christensen. So what exactly is being done to protect us from these mechanical menaces "Not enough," says Blay Whitby, an artificial-intelligence expert at the University of Sussex in England. This is hardly surprising given that the field of "safety-critical computing" is barely a decade old, he says. But things are changing, and researchers are increasingly taking an interest in trying to make robots safer. One approach, which sounds simple enough, is to try to program them to avoid contact with people altogether. But this is much harder than it sounds. Getting a robot to navigate across a cluttered room is difficult enough without having to take into account what its various limbs or appendages might bump into along the way. Regulating the behavior of robots is going to become more difficult in the future, since they will increasingly have self-learning mechanisms built into them, says Gianmarco Veruggio, a roboticist at the Institute of Intelligent Systems for Automation in Genoa, Italy. As a result, their behavior will become impossible to predict fully, he says, since they will not be behaving in predefined ways but will learn new behavior as they go. Blay Whitby thinks that "safety-critical computing"
In 1981 Kenji Urada, a 37-year-old Japanese factory worker, climbed over a safety fence at a Kawasaki plant to carry out some maintenance work on a robot. In his haste, he failed to switch the robot off properly. Unable to sense him, the robot’s powerful hydraulic arm kept on working and accidentally pushed the engineer into a grinding machine. His death made Urada the first recorded victim to die at the hands of a robot. This astounding industrial accident would not have happened in a world in which robot behavior was governed by the Three Laws of Robotics drawn up by Isaac Asimov, a science fiction writer. The laws appeared in I, Robot, a book of short stories published in 1950 that inspired a Hollywood film. But decades later the laws, designed to prevent robots from harming people either through action or inaction, remain in the realm of fiction. With robots now poised to emerge from their industrial cages and to move into homes and workplaces, roboticists are concerned about the safety implications beyond the factory floor. To address these concerns, leading robot experts have come together to try to find ways to prevent robots from harming people. "Security, safety and sex are the big concerns," says Henrik Christensen, chairman of the European Robotics Network at the Swedish Royal Institute of Technology in Stockholm, and one of the organisers of the new roboethics group. Should robots that are strong enough or heavy enough to crush people be allowed into homes Should robotic sex dolls resembling children be legally allowed These questions may seem esoteric but in the next few years they will become increasingly relevant, says Dr. Christensen. According to the United Nations Economic Commission for Europe’s World Robotics Survey, in 2002 the number of domestic and service robots more than tripled, nearly outstripping their industrial counterparts. Japanese industrial firms are racing to build humanoid robots to act as domestic helpers for the elderly, and South Korea has set a goal that 100K of households should have domestic robots by 2020. In light of all this, it is crucial that we start to think about safety and ethical guidelines now, says Dr. Christensen. So what exactly is being done to protect us from these mechanical menaces "Not enough," says Blay Whitby, an artificial-intelligence expert at the University of Sussex in England. This is hardly surprising given that the field of "safety-critical computing" is barely a decade old, he says. But things are changing, and researchers are increasingly taking an interest in trying to make robots safer. One approach, which sounds simple enough, is to try to program them to avoid contact with people altogether. But this is much harder than it sounds. Getting a robot to navigate across a cluttered room is difficult enough without having to take into account what its various limbs or appendages might bump into along the way. Regulating the behavior of robots is going to become more difficult in the future, since they will increasingly have self-learning mechanisms built into them, says Gianmarco Veruggio, a roboticist at the Institute of Intelligent Systems for Automation in Genoa, Italy. As a result, their behavior will become impossible to predict fully, he says, since they will not be behaving in predefined ways but will learn new behavior as they go. It can be inferred from the second paragraph that
In the evenings, they go to the mall. Once a week or more. Sometimes, they even leave the dinner dishes in the sink so they will have enough time to finish all the errands. The father never comes—he hates shopping, especially with his wife. Instead, he stays at home to read the paper and put around his study: To do things that the other dads must be doing in the evenings. To summon the sand to come rushing in and plug up his ears with its roaring silence. Meanwhile, the mother arms herself with returns from the last trip. Her two young daughters forget games of flashlight tag or favorite TV shows and strap on tennis shoes and seatbelts： and they’re off. On summer nights, when it’s light until after the fireflies arrive, the air is heavy and moist. The daughters unroll their windows and stick the whole of their heads out into the slate blue sky, feeling full force the sweaty, honey suckle air. In the cold mall, their rubber soles squeak on shiny linoleum squares. The younger daughter tries not to step on any cracks. The older daughter keeps a straight-ahead gaze; her sullen eyes count down each errand as it’s done. It is not until the third or, on a good night, the fourth errand that the trouble begins. The girls have wandered over to examine rainbow beach towels, perhaps, or some kind of pink ruffled bedspread. The mother’s voice finds them from a few aisles away. Dinner squirms in the daughters’ stomachs. Now comes that what-if-I-threw-up-right-this-second or where-is-a-rabbit-hole-for-me-to-fall-into feeling that they get around this time of evening, at the mall. The older one shakes her ponytails at the younger one. Her blue eyes hiss the careful-don’t-cry warning, but the younger one’s cheeks only get redder. Toe by toe, the daughters edge towards housewares where they finger lace placemats or trace patterns in the store carpet with sneakered soles. The mother’s voice still finds them, shaking with rage. Finally, heels slapping in her sandals, she strides towards them and then keeps going. They follow, catching her word-trail, "Stupid people. Stupid，stupid，stupid. I HATE stupid people." It’s the little skips between steps the younger one takes to keep up with her mother’s tong, angry legs. It’s the car door slamming and the seat belt buckle yanked into place. It’s those things that tell the daughters how the next few hours will go. In the car, the older one sighs and grinds her back teeth. The younger one feels her face get hotter and her eyes start to swell. She stares at an ice cream stain on the back of the front seat and sees a pony, a flower, and a fairy in that splash of chocolate mint chip. The mother begins on both at once. "And when we get home, if your shoes are still in the TV room, I’m throwing them out. Same for books. No more shit house. No more lazy, ungrateful kids." And so on and so on through the black velvet sky and across the Hershey bar roads. On into the house with a slap or two. "You’ll be happy when I’m in my grave," wails at them as they put on their nightgowns and brush their teeth. The older one sets a stone jaw and the younger one tries not to sob as she opens wide, engulfing her small hand and scrubbing each and every molar. The father is not spared. The volcanic mother saves some up just for him. "Fucking lousy husband. Do-nothing father. "And on like that for an hour or so more. Then in the darkest part of the night, it’s bare feet and cool hands on a small sweaty forehead. Kisses and caresses and "Sorry Mom got a little mad." Promises for that pink ruffled bedspread or maybe a new stuffed animal. Long fingers rake through the younger one’s curls. "Tomorrow evening, we’ll get you some kind of treat. Right after dinner, we’ll go to the mall.\ From the first paragraph, we get the impression that
微信支付 
支付宝支付