Tone Based Questions Test-2

Directions: Read the passage carefully and answer the questions that follow.

In early 2020, I moved with my family to Berkeley. We rented a small house near a Whole Foods, and I spent much of the first few weeks wandering aimlessly around town. On one of my first days, I walked by fraternity row and thought of Joan Didion’s essay “On the Morning After the Sixties,” which begins with the following reverie: When I think about the Sixties now I think about an afternoon not of the Sixties at all, an afternoon early in my sophomore year at Berkeley, a bright autumn Saturday in 1953.
I was lying on a leather couch in a fraternity house (there had been a lunch for the alumni, my date had gone on to the game, I do not now recall why I had stayed behind), lying there alone reading a book by Lionel Trilling and listening to a middle-aged man pick out on a piano in need of tuning the melodic line to “Blue Room.” All that afternoon he sat at the piano and all that afternoon he played “Blue Room” and he never got it right…. That such an afternoon would now seem implausible in every detail—the idea of having had a “date” for a football lunch now seems to me so exotic as to be almost czarist— suggests the extent to which the narrative on which many of us grew up no longer applies.

When I first read Didion at the age of fifteen or sixteen, I thought this was “cool,” not because I cared at all about the ideas that separated Didion from her rebellious generation, but rather because the popular kids at my high school were quasi-hippies who wore tie-dyed Allman Brothers Band shirts, drove Ford Explorers, and played lacrosse, and as I disliked them all, I tried to define myself through glamorous New York intellectualism, defined by a pursed-lip frown, a cigarette, and a sophisticated readership who lived just a few blocks from the author herself or, at least, ran into her at the 92nd Street Y. There wasn’t any actual reason for why we had moved to Berkeley, but something wasn’t quite working for me anymore in Brooklyn.

Those details that I had associated with Didion as a teenager had more or less become my life, and although I didn’t particularly hate any of it, I could never quite shake the feeling that I was an intruder or, at the very least, a token presence. There are worse fates, of course, and it’s important to note here that I am talking not about systems of oppression or racism but about how immigrants, in particular, have been written into several narratives at once. This creates an unmoored, almost floating sensation.

Directions: Read the passage carefully and answer the questions that follow.

In early 2020, I moved with my family to Berkeley. We rented a small house near a Whole Foods, and I spent much of the first few weeks wandering aimlessly around town. On one of my first days, I walked by fraternity row and thought of Joan Didion’s essay “On the Morning After the Sixties,” which begins with the following reverie: When I think about the Sixties now I think about an afternoon not of the Sixties at all, an afternoon early in my sophomore year at Berkeley, a bright autumn Saturday in 1953.
I was lying on a leather couch in a fraternity house (there had been a lunch for the alumni, my date had gone on to the game, I do not now recall why I had stayed behind), lying there alone reading a book by Lionel Trilling and listening to a middle-aged man pick out on a piano in need of tuning the melodic line to “Blue Room.” All that afternoon he sat at the piano and all that afternoon he played “Blue Room” and he never got it right…. That such an afternoon would now seem implausible in every detail—the idea of having had a “date” for a football lunch now seems to me so exotic as to be almost czarist— suggests the extent to which the narrative on which many of us grew up no longer applies.

When I first read Didion at the age of fifteen or sixteen, I thought this was “cool,” not because I cared at all about the ideas that separated Didion from her rebellious generation, but rather because the popular kids at my high school were quasi-hippies who wore tie-dyed Allman Brothers Band shirts, drove Ford Explorers, and played lacrosse, and as I disliked them all, I tried to define myself through glamorous New York intellectualism, defined by a pursed-lip frown, a cigarette, and a sophisticated readership who lived just a few blocks from the author herself or, at least, ran into her at the 92nd Street Y. There wasn’t any actual reason for why we had moved to Berkeley, but something wasn’t quite working for me anymore in Brooklyn.

Those details that I had associated with Didion as a teenager had more or less become my life, and although I didn’t particularly hate any of it, I could never quite shake the feeling that I was an intruder or, at the very least, a token presence. There are worse fates, of course, and it’s important to note here that I am talking not about systems of oppression or racism but about how immigrants, in particular, have been written into several narratives at once. This creates an unmoored, almost floating sensation.

Directions: Read the passage carefully and answer the questions that follow.

In early 2020, I moved with my family to Berkeley. We rented a small house near a Whole Foods, and I spent much of the first few weeks wandering aimlessly around town. On one of my first days, I walked by fraternity row and thought of Joan Didion’s essay “On the Morning After the Sixties,” which begins with the following reverie: When I think about the Sixties now I think about an afternoon not of the Sixties at all, an afternoon early in my sophomore year at Berkeley, a bright autumn Saturday in 1953.
I was lying on a leather couch in a fraternity house (there had been a lunch for the alumni, my date had gone on to the game, I do not now recall why I had stayed behind), lying there alone reading a book by Lionel Trilling and listening to a middle-aged man pick out on a piano in need of tuning the melodic line to “Blue Room.” All that afternoon he sat at the piano and all that afternoon he played “Blue Room” and he never got it right…. That such an afternoon would now seem implausible in every detail—the idea of having had a “date” for a football lunch now seems to me so exotic as to be almost czarist— suggests the extent to which the narrative on which many of us grew up no longer applies.

When I first read Didion at the age of fifteen or sixteen, I thought this was “cool,” not because I cared at all about the ideas that separated Didion from her rebellious generation, but rather because the popular kids at my high school were quasi-hippies who wore tie-dyed Allman Brothers Band shirts, drove Ford Explorers, and played lacrosse, and as I disliked them all, I tried to define myself through glamorous New York intellectualism, defined by a pursed-lip frown, a cigarette, and a sophisticated readership who lived just a few blocks from the author herself or, at least, ran into her at the 92nd Street Y. There wasn’t any actual reason for why we had moved to Berkeley, but something wasn’t quite working for me anymore in Brooklyn.

Those details that I had associated with Didion as a teenager had more or less become my life, and although I didn’t particularly hate any of it, I could never quite shake the feeling that I was an intruder or, at the very least, a token presence. There are worse fates, of course, and it’s important to note here that I am talking not about systems of oppression or racism but about how immigrants, in particular, have been written into several narratives at once. This creates an unmoored, almost floating sensation.

Directions: Read the passage carefully and answer the questions that follow.

In early 2020, I moved with my family to Berkeley. We rented a small house near a Whole Foods, and I spent much of the first few weeks wandering aimlessly around town. On one of my first days, I walked by fraternity row and thought of Joan Didion’s essay “On the Morning After the Sixties,” which begins with the following reverie: When I think about the Sixties now I think about an afternoon not of the Sixties at all, an afternoon early in my sophomore year at Berkeley, a bright autumn Saturday in 1953.
I was lying on a leather couch in a fraternity house (there had been a lunch for the alumni, my date had gone on to the game, I do not now recall why I had stayed behind), lying there alone reading a book by Lionel Trilling and listening to a middle-aged man pick out on a piano in need of tuning the melodic line to “Blue Room.” All that afternoon he sat at the piano and all that afternoon he played “Blue Room” and he never got it right…. That such an afternoon would now seem implausible in every detail—the idea of having had a “date” for a football lunch now seems to me so exotic as to be almost czarist— suggests the extent to which the narrative on which many of us grew up no longer applies.

When I first read Didion at the age of fifteen or sixteen, I thought this was “cool,” not because I cared at all about the ideas that separated Didion from her rebellious generation, but rather because the popular kids at my high school were quasi-hippies who wore tie-dyed Allman Brothers Band shirts, drove Ford Explorers, and played lacrosse, and as I disliked them all, I tried to define myself through glamorous New York intellectualism, defined by a pursed-lip frown, a cigarette, and a sophisticated readership who lived just a few blocks from the author herself or, at least, ran into her at the 92nd Street Y. There wasn’t any actual reason for why we had moved to Berkeley, but something wasn’t quite working for me anymore in Brooklyn.

Those details that I had associated with Didion as a teenager had more or less become my life, and although I didn’t particularly hate any of it, I could never quite shake the feeling that I was an intruder or, at the very least, a token presence. There are worse fates, of course, and it’s important to note here that I am talking not about systems of oppression or racism but about how immigrants, in particular, have been written into several narratives at once. This creates an unmoored, almost floating sensation.

Directions: Read the passage carefully and answer the questions that follow.

In early 2020, I moved with my family to Berkeley. We rented a small house near a Whole Foods, and I spent much of the first few weeks wandering aimlessly around town. On one of my first days, I walked by fraternity row and thought of Joan Didion’s essay “On the Morning After the Sixties,” which begins with the following reverie: When I think about the Sixties now I think about an afternoon not of the Sixties at all, an afternoon early in my sophomore year at Berkeley, a bright autumn Saturday in 1953.
I was lying on a leather couch in a fraternity house (there had been a lunch for the alumni, my date had gone on to the game, I do not now recall why I had stayed behind), lying there alone reading a book by Lionel Trilling and listening to a middle-aged man pick out on a piano in need of tuning the melodic line to “Blue Room.” All that afternoon he sat at the piano and all that afternoon he played “Blue Room” and he never got it right…. That such an afternoon would now seem implausible in every detail—the idea of having had a “date” for a football lunch now seems to me so exotic as to be almost czarist— suggests the extent to which the narrative on which many of us grew up no longer applies.

When I first read Didion at the age of fifteen or sixteen, I thought this was “cool,” not because I cared at all about the ideas that separated Didion from her rebellious generation, but rather because the popular kids at my high school were quasi-hippies who wore tie-dyed Allman Brothers Band shirts, drove Ford Explorers, and played lacrosse, and as I disliked them all, I tried to define myself through glamorous New York intellectualism, defined by a pursed-lip frown, a cigarette, and a sophisticated readership who lived just a few blocks from the author herself or, at least, ran into her at the 92nd Street Y. There wasn’t any actual reason for why we had moved to Berkeley, but something wasn’t quite working for me anymore in Brooklyn.

Those details that I had associated with Didion as a teenager had more or less become my life, and although I didn’t particularly hate any of it, I could never quite shake the feeling that I was an intruder or, at the very least, a token presence. There are worse fates, of course, and it’s important to note here that I am talking not about systems of oppression or racism but about how immigrants, in particular, have been written into several narratives at once. This creates an unmoored, almost floating sensation.

Directions: Read the passage carefully and answer the questions that follow.

And then the two things happened to William. The first thing I heard about was on a Saturday in late May. It was the anniversary of David’s finding out about his illness, and when William called me I (so stupidly) thought he was calling me about that, and I was surprised and touched that he remembered the exact date. I said, “Oh Pillie, thank you for calling,” and he said, “What?” And then I said it was the first-year anniversary of David’s illness, and he said, “Oh God, Lucy, I’m sorry,” and I said, “No, it’s okay, tell me why you called.” And he did say, “Oh Lucy, I’ll call back another day. It can wait.” And I said, “Who cares about another day? Tell me now.” So William told me how that morning he had finally gone onto the ancestry website that Estelle had gotten him a subscription for, and then—sounding as though he was having a conversation about a tennis game he had just seen that was interesting—he told me. This is what he found: His mother had had a child before he was born. With her husband Clyde Trask, the potato farmer in Maine. This child was two years older than William, and the website stated her maiden name as Lois Trask and the child Lois had been born in Houlton, Maine, near where Catherine had lived with her first husband, the potato farmer husband Clyde Trask. The birth certificate stated Catherine Cole Trask as her mother and Clyde Trask as her father. Clyde Trask had married someone else when Lois was two years old; there was a marriage certificate for that as well. William could find no death certificate for Lois, only a marriage certificate from 1969, her name was now Lois Bubar—“I looked up how to pronounce it, and it’s boo-bar,” William said with some sarcasm—and the names of her children, and grandchildren. Her husband had a death certificate from five years ago. William asked what I thought of that and then said, almost casually, “It’s ridiculous, of course, it can’t be true. I bet these sites have all kinds of misinformation on them.” I got up and moved to a different chair. I asked him to take me through the steps again; I knew nothing about these websites. So he did, patiently, and as I listened—and I mean this literally—I got chills down my side. “Lucy?” he said. After a moment I said, “I think it has to be true, William.” “It’s not true,” he said, firmly. “God, Lucy. Catherine would never have left a child, and even if she ever did— which she wouldn’t have—she would have spoken to someone about it.” “Why are you so sure?”

Directions: Read the passage carefully and answer the questions that follow.

And then the two things happened to William. The first thing I heard about was on a Saturday in late May. It was the anniversary of David’s finding out about his illness, and when William called me I (so stupidly) thought he was calling me about that, and I was surprised and touched that he remembered the exact date. I said, “Oh Pillie, thank you for calling,” and he said, “What?” And then I said it was the first-year anniversary of David’s illness, and he said, “Oh God, Lucy, I’m sorry,” and I said, “No, it’s okay, tell me why you called.” And he did say, “Oh Lucy, I’ll call back another day. It can wait.” And I said, “Who cares about another day? Tell me now.” So William told me how that morning he had finally gone onto the ancestry website that Estelle had gotten him a subscription for, and then—sounding as though he was having a conversation about a tennis game he had just seen that was interesting—he told me. This is what he found: His mother had had a child before he was born. With her husband Clyde Trask, the potato farmer in Maine. This child was two years older than William, and the website stated her maiden name as Lois Trask and the child Lois had been born in Houlton, Maine, near where Catherine had lived with her first husband, the potato farmer husband Clyde Trask. The birth certificate stated Catherine Cole Trask as her mother and Clyde Trask as her father. Clyde Trask had married someone else when Lois was two years old; there was a marriage certificate for that as well. William could find no death certificate for Lois, only a marriage certificate from 1969, her name was now Lois Bubar—“I looked up how to pronounce it, and it’s boo-bar,” William said with some sarcasm—and the names of her children, and grandchildren. Her husband had a death certificate from five years ago. William asked what I thought of that and then said, almost casually, “It’s ridiculous, of course, it can’t be true. I bet these sites have all kinds of misinformation on them.” I got up and moved to a different chair. I asked him to take me through the steps again; I knew nothing about these websites. So he did, patiently, and as I listened—and I mean this literally—I got chills down my side. “Lucy?” he said. After a moment I said, “I think it has to be true, William.” “It’s not true,” he said, firmly. “God, Lucy. Catherine would never have left a child, and even if she ever did— which she wouldn’t have—she would have spoken to someone about it.” “Why are you so sure?”

Directions: Read the passage carefully and answer the questions that follow.

And then the two things happened to William. The first thing I heard about was on a Saturday in late May. It was the anniversary of David’s finding out about his illness, and when William called me I (so stupidly) thought he was calling me about that, and I was surprised and touched that he remembered the exact date. I said, “Oh Pillie, thank you for calling,” and he said, “What?” And then I said it was the first-year anniversary of David’s illness, and he said, “Oh God, Lucy, I’m sorry,” and I said, “No, it’s okay, tell me why you called.” And he did say, “Oh Lucy, I’ll call back another day. It can wait.” And I said, “Who cares about another day? Tell me now.” So William told me how that morning he had finally gone onto the ancestry website that Estelle had gotten him a subscription for, and then—sounding as though he was having a conversation about a tennis game he had just seen that was interesting—he told me. This is what he found: His mother had had a child before he was born. With her husband Clyde Trask, the potato farmer in Maine. This child was two years older than William, and the website stated her maiden name as Lois Trask and the child Lois had been born in Houlton, Maine, near where Catherine had lived with her first husband, the potato farmer husband Clyde Trask. The birth certificate stated Catherine Cole Trask as her mother and Clyde Trask as her father. Clyde Trask had married someone else when Lois was two years old; there was a marriage certificate for that as well. William could find no death certificate for Lois, only a marriage certificate from 1969, her name was now Lois Bubar—“I looked up how to pronounce it, and it’s boo-bar,” William said with some sarcasm—and the names of her children, and grandchildren. Her husband had a death certificate from five years ago. William asked what I thought of that and then said, almost casually, “It’s ridiculous, of course, it can’t be true. I bet these sites have all kinds of misinformation on them.” I got up and moved to a different chair. I asked him to take me through the steps again; I knew nothing about these websites. So he did, patiently, and as I listened—and I mean this literally—I got chills down my side. “Lucy?” he said. After a moment I said, “I think it has to be true, William.” “It’s not true,” he said, firmly. “God, Lucy. Catherine would never have left a child, and even if she ever did— which she wouldn’t have—she would have spoken to someone about it.” “Why are you so sure?”

Directions: Read the passage carefully and answer the questions that follow.

And then the two things happened to William. The first thing I heard about was on a Saturday in late May. It was the anniversary of David’s finding out about his illness, and when William called me I (so stupidly) thought he was calling me about that, and I was surprised and touched that he remembered the exact date. I said, “Oh Pillie, thank you for calling,” and he said, “What?” And then I said it was the first-year anniversary of David’s illness, and he said, “Oh God, Lucy, I’m sorry,” and I said, “No, it’s okay, tell me why you called.” And he did say, “Oh Lucy, I’ll call back another day. It can wait.” And I said, “Who cares about another day? Tell me now.” So William told me how that morning he had finally gone onto the ancestry website that Estelle had gotten him a subscription for, and then—sounding as though he was having a conversation about a tennis game he had just seen that was interesting—he told me. This is what he found: His mother had had a child before he was born. With her husband Clyde Trask, the potato farmer in Maine. This child was two years older than William, and the website stated her maiden name as Lois Trask and the child Lois had been born in Houlton, Maine, near where Catherine had lived with her first husband, the potato farmer husband Clyde Trask. The birth certificate stated Catherine Cole Trask as her mother and Clyde Trask as her father. Clyde Trask had married someone else when Lois was two years old; there was a marriage certificate for that as well. William could find no death certificate for Lois, only a marriage certificate from 1969, her name was now Lois Bubar—“I looked up how to pronounce it, and it’s boo-bar,” William said with some sarcasm—and the names of her children, and grandchildren. Her husband had a death certificate from five years ago. William asked what I thought of that and then said, almost casually, “It’s ridiculous, of course, it can’t be true. I bet these sites have all kinds of misinformation on them.” I got up and moved to a different chair. I asked him to take me through the steps again; I knew nothing about these websites. So he did, patiently, and as I listened—and I mean this literally—I got chills down my side. “Lucy?” he said. After a moment I said, “I think it has to be true, William.” “It’s not true,” he said, firmly. “God, Lucy. Catherine would never have left a child, and even if she ever did— which she wouldn’t have—she would have spoken to someone about it.” “Why are you so sure?”

Directions: Read the passage carefully and answer the questions that follow.

And then the two things happened to William. The first thing I heard about was on a Saturday in late May. It was the anniversary of David’s finding out about his illness, and when William called me I (so stupidly) thought he was calling me about that, and I was surprised and touched that he remembered the exact date. I said, “Oh Pillie, thank you for calling,” and he said, “What?” And then I said it was the first-year anniversary of David’s illness, and he said, “Oh God, Lucy, I’m sorry,” and I said, “No, it’s okay, tell me why you called.” And he did say, “Oh Lucy, I’ll call back another day. It can wait.” And I said, “Who cares about another day? Tell me now.” So William told me how that morning he had finally gone onto the ancestry website that Estelle had gotten him a subscription for, and then—sounding as though he was having a conversation about a tennis game he had just seen that was interesting—he told me. This is what he found: His mother had had a child before he was born. With her husband Clyde Trask, the potato farmer in Maine. This child was two years older than William, and the website stated her maiden name as Lois Trask and the child Lois had been born in Houlton, Maine, near where Catherine had lived with her first husband, the potato farmer husband Clyde Trask. The birth certificate stated Catherine Cole Trask as her mother and Clyde Trask as her father. Clyde Trask had married someone else when Lois was two years old; there was a marriage certificate for that as well. William could find no death certificate for Lois, only a marriage certificate from 1969, her name was now Lois Bubar—“I looked up how to pronounce it, and it’s boo-bar,” William said with some sarcasm—and the names of her children, and grandchildren. Her husband had a death certificate from five years ago. William asked what I thought of that and then said, almost casually, “It’s ridiculous, of course, it can’t be true. I bet these sites have all kinds of misinformation on them.” I got up and moved to a different chair. I asked him to take me through the steps again; I knew nothing about these websites. So he did, patiently, and as I listened—and I mean this literally—I got chills down my side. “Lucy?” he said. After a moment I said, “I think it has to be true, William.” “It’s not true,” he said, firmly. “God, Lucy. Catherine would never have left a child, and even if she ever did— which she wouldn’t have—she would have spoken to someone about it.” “Why are you so sure?”

Directions: Read the passage carefully and answer the questions that follow.

The cart nearly tips. We find out that Marya has made some purchases in town. (These purchases are now an element of the story. What use, we wonder, will be made of them?) Hanov repeats the dumb joke he made on the previous page, Semyon turns on him ("But who tells you to go driving in such weather," he says, in a "surly" voice), and Hanov's gentle response to this insult from someone beneath him in status (Semyon is a peasant, Hanov a wealthy landowner) tracks satisfyingly with what Marya has told us about Hanov: he's a pushover, spineless, an easy grader. Marya thinks she smells liquor in the woods. She pities Hanov, who is 'going to pieces without rhyme or reason," and thinks that, if she were his wife or sister, she'd devote "her whole life" to his rescue. But that's impossible. "Fundamentally, life was so arranged and human relations were complicated so utterly beyond all understanding that when you thought about it you were terrified and your heart sank." Then, as if he's just heard Marya ruling out their marriage, Hanov rides right out of the story. Marya barely seems to notice, confirming our sense that she doesn't really consider him a romantic possibility. (She doesn't think, "Oh no, he's gone, I failed to interest him!") Her mind returns to the school (she thinks of "her pupils, of the examination, of the janitor, of the School Board"). This is now the third time she's done this—withdrawn from the real world into worry about the school. It's a habit with her (her default rumination, a measure of how she's been trained and reduced by this life of toil). One of the accomplishments of this story is Chekhov's representation of the way a lonely mind works. Marya's just musing here, doing the sort of light fantasizing we do when we imagine winning the lottery or becoming a senator or telling off someone who hurt our feelings back in high school. Although the story sets us up to feel that Marya might (might) be open to Hanov, it also gives us plenty of reasons to understand this as both impossible and not to be desired. He's a drunk, an idler, past the age for reformation. He doesn't seem interested in Marya, or in anybody—he's likely had plenty of chances to marry before but never has. And Marya is, actually, kind of prideful; even as she's assessing him, we feel her thinking that, if they did get together, he'd prove a handful and a disappointment. And yet... Chekhov has her do something lovely: she hears "the sound of the receding carriage" and suddenly wants to think of "beautiful eyes, of love, of the happiness that would never be.. .." She thinks, again, of being his wife (not his sister this time).

Directions: Read the passage carefully and answer the questions that follow.

The cart nearly tips. We find out that Marya has made some purchases in town. (These purchases are now an element of the story. What use, we wonder, will be made of them?) Hanov repeats the dumb joke he made on the previous page, Semyon turns on him ("But who tells you to go driving in such weather," he says, in a "surly" voice), and Hanov's gentle response to this insult from someone beneath him in status (Semyon is a peasant, Hanov a wealthy landowner) tracks satisfyingly with what Marya has told us about Hanov: he's a pushover, spineless, an easy grader. Marya thinks she smells liquor in the woods. She pities Hanov, who is 'going to pieces without rhyme or reason," and thinks that, if she were his wife or sister, she'd devote "her whole life" to his rescue. But that's impossible. "Fundamentally, life was so arranged and human relations were complicated so utterly beyond all understanding that when you thought about it you were terrified and your heart sank." Then, as if he's just heard Marya ruling out their marriage, Hanov rides right out of the story. Marya barely seems to notice, confirming our sense that she doesn't really consider him a romantic possibility. (She doesn't think, "Oh no, he's gone, I failed to interest him!") Her mind returns to the school (she thinks of "her pupils, of the examination, of the janitor, of the School Board"). This is now the third time she's done this—withdrawn from the real world into worry about the school. It's a habit with her (her default rumination, a measure of how she's been trained and reduced by this life of toil). One of the accomplishments of this story is Chekhov's representation of the way a lonely mind works. Marya's just musing here, doing the sort of light fantasizing we do when we imagine winning the lottery or becoming a senator or telling off someone who hurt our feelings back in high school. Although the story sets us up to feel that Marya might (might) be open to Hanov, it also gives us plenty of reasons to understand this as both impossible and not to be desired. He's a drunk, an idler, past the age for reformation. He doesn't seem interested in Marya, or in anybody—he's likely had plenty of chances to marry before but never has. And Marya is, actually, kind of prideful; even as she's assessing him, we feel her thinking that, if they did get together, he'd prove a handful and a disappointment. And yet... Chekhov has her do something lovely: she hears "the sound of the receding carriage" and suddenly wants to think of "beautiful eyes, of love, of the happiness that would never be.. .." She thinks, again, of being his wife (not his sister this time).

Directions: Read the passage carefully and answer the questions that follow.

The cart nearly tips. We find out that Marya has made some purchases in town. (These purchases are now an element of the story. What use, we wonder, will be made of them?) Hanov repeats the dumb joke he made on the previous page, Semyon turns on him ("But who tells you to go driving in such weather," he says, in a "surly" voice), and Hanov's gentle response to this insult from someone beneath him in status (Semyon is a peasant, Hanov a wealthy landowner) tracks satisfyingly with what Marya has told us about Hanov: he's a pushover, spineless, an easy grader. Marya thinks she smells liquor in the woods. She pities Hanov, who is 'going to pieces without rhyme or reason," and thinks that, if she were his wife or sister, she'd devote "her whole life" to his rescue. But that's impossible. "Fundamentally, life was so arranged and human relations were complicated so utterly beyond all understanding that when you thought about it you were terrified and your heart sank." Then, as if he's just heard Marya ruling out their marriage, Hanov rides right out of the story. Marya barely seems to notice, confirming our sense that she doesn't really consider him a romantic possibility. (She doesn't think, "Oh no, he's gone, I failed to interest him!") Her mind returns to the school (she thinks of "her pupils, of the examination, of the janitor, of the School Board"). This is now the third time she's done this—withdrawn from the real world into worry about the school. It's a habit with her (her default rumination, a measure of how she's been trained and reduced by this life of toil). One of the accomplishments of this story is Chekhov's representation of the way a lonely mind works. Marya's just musing here, doing the sort of light fantasizing we do when we imagine winning the lottery or becoming a senator or telling off someone who hurt our feelings back in high school. Although the story sets us up to feel that Marya might (might) be open to Hanov, it also gives us plenty of reasons to understand this as both impossible and not to be desired. He's a drunk, an idler, past the age for reformation. He doesn't seem interested in Marya, or in anybody—he's likely had plenty of chances to marry before but never has. And Marya is, actually, kind of prideful; even as she's assessing him, we feel her thinking that, if they did get together, he'd prove a handful and a disappointment. And yet... Chekhov has her do something lovely: she hears "the sound of the receding carriage" and suddenly wants to think of "beautiful eyes, of love, of the happiness that would never be.. .." She thinks, again, of being his wife (not his sister this time).

Directions: Read the passage carefully and answer the questions that follow.

The cart nearly tips. We find out that Marya has made some purchases in town. (These purchases are now an element of the story. What use, we wonder, will be made of them?) Hanov repeats the dumb joke he made on the previous page, Semyon turns on him ("But who tells you to go driving in such weather," he says, in a "surly" voice), and Hanov's gentle response to this insult from someone beneath him in status (Semyon is a peasant, Hanov a wealthy landowner) tracks satisfyingly with what Marya has told us about Hanov: he's a pushover, spineless, an easy grader. Marya thinks she smells liquor in the woods. She pities Hanov, who is 'going to pieces without rhyme or reason," and thinks that, if she were his wife or sister, she'd devote "her whole life" to his rescue. But that's impossible. "Fundamentally, life was so arranged and human relations were complicated so utterly beyond all understanding that when you thought about it you were terrified and your heart sank." Then, as if he's just heard Marya ruling out their marriage, Hanov rides right out of the story. Marya barely seems to notice, confirming our sense that she doesn't really consider him a romantic possibility. (She doesn't think, "Oh no, he's gone, I failed to interest him!") Her mind returns to the school (she thinks of "her pupils, of the examination, of the janitor, of the School Board"). This is now the third time she's done this—withdrawn from the real world into worry about the school. It's a habit with her (her default rumination, a measure of how she's been trained and reduced by this life of toil). One of the accomplishments of this story is Chekhov's representation of the way a lonely mind works. Marya's just musing here, doing the sort of light fantasizing we do when we imagine winning the lottery or becoming a senator or telling off someone who hurt our feelings back in high school. Although the story sets us up to feel that Marya might (might) be open to Hanov, it also gives us plenty of reasons to understand this as both impossible and not to be desired. He's a drunk, an idler, past the age for reformation. He doesn't seem interested in Marya, or in anybody—he's likely had plenty of chances to marry before but never has. And Marya is, actually, kind of prideful; even as she's assessing him, we feel her thinking that, if they did get together, he'd prove a handful and a disappointment. And yet... Chekhov has her do something lovely: she hears "the sound of the receding carriage" and suddenly wants to think of "beautiful eyes, of love, of the happiness that would never be.. .." She thinks, again, of being his wife (not his sister this time).

Directions: Read the passage carefully and answer the questions that follow.

The cart nearly tips. We find out that Marya has made some purchases in town. (These purchases are now an element of the story. What use, we wonder, will be made of them?) Hanov repeats the dumb joke he made on the previous page, Semyon turns on him ("But who tells you to go driving in such weather," he says, in a "surly" voice), and Hanov's gentle response to this insult from someone beneath him in status (Semyon is a peasant, Hanov a wealthy landowner) tracks satisfyingly with what Marya has told us about Hanov: he's a pushover, spineless, an easy grader. Marya thinks she smells liquor in the woods. She pities Hanov, who is 'going to pieces without rhyme or reason," and thinks that, if she were his wife or sister, she'd devote "her whole life" to his rescue. But that's impossible. "Fundamentally, life was so arranged and human relations were complicated so utterly beyond all understanding that when you thought about it you were terrified and your heart sank." Then, as if he's just heard Marya ruling out their marriage, Hanov rides right out of the story. Marya barely seems to notice, confirming our sense that she doesn't really consider him a romantic possibility. (She doesn't think, "Oh no, he's gone, I failed to interest him!") Her mind returns to the school (she thinks of "her pupils, of the examination, of the janitor, of the School Board"). This is now the third time she's done this—withdrawn from the real world into worry about the school. It's a habit with her (her default rumination, a measure of how she's been trained and reduced by this life of toil). One of the accomplishments of this story is Chekhov's representation of the way a lonely mind works. Marya's just musing here, doing the sort of light fantasizing we do when we imagine winning the lottery or becoming a senator or telling off someone who hurt our feelings back in high school. Although the story sets us up to feel that Marya might (might) be open to Hanov, it also gives us plenty of reasons to understand this as both impossible and not to be desired. He's a drunk, an idler, past the age for reformation. He doesn't seem interested in Marya, or in anybody—he's likely had plenty of chances to marry before but never has. And Marya is, actually, kind of prideful; even as she's assessing him, we feel her thinking that, if they did get together, he'd prove a handful and a disappointment. And yet... Chekhov has her do something lovely: she hears "the sound of the receding carriage" and suddenly wants to think of "beautiful eyes, of love, of the happiness that would never be.. .." She thinks, again, of being his wife (not his sister this time).