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  /external/libxcam/modules/soft/
soft_stitcher.cpp 145 const BowlDataConfig &bowl);
244 const BowlDataConfig &bowl)
258 view_slice.width, view_slice.height, bowl);
429 BowlDataConfig bowl = _stitcher->get_bowl_config (); local
430 bowl.angle_start = view_slice.hori_angle_start;
431 bowl.angle_end = format_angle (view_slice.hori_angle_start + view_slice.hori_angle_range);
437 if (bowl.angle_end < bowl.angle_start)
438 bowl.angle_start -= 360.0f;
440 "soft-stitcher:%s camera(idx:%d) info (angle start:%.2f, range:%.2f), bowl info (angle start%.2f, end:%.2f)"
    [all...]
  /external/libxcam/tests/
test-soft-image.cpp 766 BowlDataConfig bowl; local
767 bowl.wall_height = 3000.0f;
768 bowl.ground_length = 2000.0f;
769 //bowl.a = 5000.0f;
770 //bowl.b = 3600.0f;
771 //bowl.c = 3000.0f;
772 bowl.angle_start = 0.0f;
773 bowl.angle_end = 360.0f;
774 stitcher->set_bowl_config (bowl);
  /prebuilts/go/darwin-x86/src/cmd/link/
link_test.go 16 Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little ?prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.
  /prebuilts/go/linux-x86/src/cmd/link/
link_test.go 16 Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little ?prentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.

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