(Q).
The Marshall police were looking for the killer, but they had no evidence or witnesses. The case would go cold in a hurry. Carnie was ready to check out of her room--not because of any fear of getting caught--just from boredom. She hadn't sold the old lady's jewelry, but had plenty of cash anyway. Carnie flipped open her cell phone and dialed. "Hello?" "Hey, Sis, how are you doing?" "Fine. What's going on?" "How about if I come stay with you guys for a few days before the wedding?" "You mean now?" "Yeah. If you don't mind." "Uh...sure, that'll be fine." "Great. It'll be like old times." "No, no. I can't party all night and get drunk." Carsie laughed. "Okay. Maybe not exactly like old times. But we'll have fun. See you in thirty minutes." "Thirty minutes? Where are you?" But Carnie had already hung up. It was hard to believe that her sister, Carsie, had wormed her way into the heart of the wealthy doctor. Sis had a lot more patience than she did. She would have just slit his throat and skipped town with his fortune. Surely Carsie hadn't actually fallen in love with the nerd. Maybe her biological clock had started ticking too loud to ignore. Carsie was about to turn 31, and Carnie was only a year behind her. But unlike her sister, Carnie didn't need a man to support her and give her babies. Anything she needed she would get for herself, thank you very much. But it would be hysterical to watch Carsie go through the whole 'until death do we part' shtick. Would she actually have the balls to wear a white dress? If the color of the dress indicates the purity of the bride, maybe she should go with midnight black. Question: Who is the old lady? Options: - Carnie's mother   - not enough information   - The murder victim   - The doctor's sister === The correct answer is
(A).
not enough information


(Q).
My first memory of cooking was with my grandmother, Rosemary, in Sydney. She taught me how to make scrambled eggs on her electric stovetop, the kind with the coiled heating elements, in her small, linoleum-lined kitchen with cupboards that stuck a little when they closed. She was not an exceptional cook — I can remember plenty of bland and overcooked vegetables and custard made with powder to pour into pre-bought pie cases with tinned pineapple, her specialty — but she worked hard to put a balanced, home-cooked meal on the table three times a day, every day. The eldest of eight children, she dropped out of school during the Depression to help her single mother look after her siblings and work as a seamstress at David Jones. When the Second World War broke out and she was engaged to my grandfather, Aubrey, she started working on war-torn planes (“sometimes looking as if a steam roller has gone over them,” she said) as a sheet metal worker, putting them back together, when many of the men who used to do this work were off fighting the war. She said it was just like dressmaking, only using different materials. She had a twinkle in her eye and a distinct laugh that can really only be described as a cackle. She was a strong, incredibly smart woman with a fighter spirit who led her female co-workers out on the airport tarmac one day on a strike to earn equal wages to men. I am so proud that her story is taught as part of the Australian primary school curriculum. Her dream was to have a home with that electric stove. In 1943 when she was 28 she was interviewed for Australian Women’s Weekly magazine for an article on women in men’s jobs during the war, where there is a photo of her that is etched in my memory, dressed in white, wearing a white bandana tied in a knot at the top of her dark curls, a plane behind her. Question: Who was Rosemary? Options: - Narrator's grandfather   - Narrator's cook   - Narrator's grandmother   - not enough information === The correct answer is
(A).
not enough information


(Q).
Alona's persistent knocking at the door of room 412 went unanswered for three minutes as she nervously shuffled her feet. Her book bag was super-saturated with textbooks, notebooks, schedules, rough drafts, and various other forms of academic paraphernalia. It was getting heavier. She continued to knock, even though there had as yet been no answer, because the note card tacked to the right of the door indicated that these indeed were Prof. Turgy K. Sigger's office hours. She could see the light under the door and thought she had heard a groan. Just before she decided to give up, slow feet approached from the opposite side, then silence; with a dramatic turn of the knob, the door swung open. "Was this trip really necessary?" asked Prof. Sigger, blinking and brushing his oily, graying hair back into place. "These are your office hours," Alona replied. She nervously smiled, feeling the corners of her mouth twitch. Somewhere in the darkened hall, a janitor coughed. "All right," conceded Prof. Sigger. "Come in." The carpet was smothered by leaning towers of textbooks. Papers lined the left side of the desk, above which was a small note card which read "To Be Graded." On the right side, the oak finish gleamed of the mid-morning light piercing the Venetian blinds. "You've come about your final project," Prof. Sigger stated. "It's only mid-term," Alona reminded him. "Oh yes, yes," continued Prof. Sigger, without conscious embarrassment. "Mid-term grade. I think I have it here. Somewhere." His hands disappeared into the left side of his desk. "You told the class that we would get a C if we maintained that Coca-Cola isn't a crypto-fascist conspiracy." "Oh yes," said Prof. Sigger. "We were discussing social issues, as I remember. I was quoting Marx and some little idiot brought up Rush Limbaugh." "That was me," Alona muttered. Question: When Alona visited Prof. Sigger's office, the janitor coughed: Options: - while talking to Prof. Sigger at his office door   - after Alona entered Prof. Sigger's office   - before Prof. Sigger answered his office door   - not enough information === The correct answer is
(A).
