quiz 20

Excerpt Adapted from “The Finished Story” by Lucy Maude Montgomery

She always sat in a corner of the west veranda at the hotel, knitting something white and fluffy, or pink and fluffy, or pale blue and fluffy— always fluffy, at least, and always dainty. Shawls and scarfs and hoods the things were, I believe. When she finished one she gave it to some girl and began another. 2 She was old, with that beautiful, serene old age which is as beautiful in its way as youth. Her girlhood and womanhood must have been very lovely to have ripened into such a beauty of sixty years. 3 For the first two days after the arrival at the hotel she sat in her corner alone. There was always a circle of young people around her; old folks and middle-aged people would have liked to join it, but Miss Sylvia, while she was gracious to all, let it be distinctly understood that her sympathies were with youth. 4 Miss Sylvia liked us all, but I was her favorite. She told us so frankly and let it be understood that when I was talking to her and her shawl was allowed to slip under one arm it was a sign that we were not to be interrupted. 5 We were sitting together on the veranda at sunset. Most of the hotel people had gone for a harbor sail. 6 I was reading one of my stories to Miss Sylvia. In my own excuse I must allege that she tempted me to do it. Miss Sylvia had discovered that I was a magazine scribbler, and moreover, that I had shut myself up in my room that very morning and perpetrated a short story. Nothing would do but that I read it to her.

It was a rather sad little story. The hero loved the heroine, and she loved him. There was no reason why he should not love her, but there was a reason why he could not marry her. When he found that he loved her he knew that he must go away. But might he not, at least, tell her his love? Might he not, at least, find out for his consolation if she cared for him? There was a struggle; he won, and went away without a word, believing it to be the more manly course. 8 When I turned the last page of the manuscript and looked up, Miss Sylvia’s soft brown eyes were full of tears. She lifted her hands, clasped them together and said in an agitated voice: 9 “Oh, no, no; don’t let him go away without telling her—just telling her. Don’t let him do it!” 10 “But, you see, Miss Sylvia,” I explained, flattered beyond measure that my characters had seemed so real to her, “that would spoil the story. It would have no reason for existence then. Its motif is simply his mastery over self. He believes it to be the nobler course.” 11 “No, no, it wasn’t—if he loved her he should have told her. Think of her shame and humiliation—she loved him, and he went without a word and she could never know he cared for her. Oh, you must change it—you must, indeed! I cannot bear to think of her suffering what I have suffered.” 12 Miss Sylvia broke down and sobbed. To appease her, I promised that I would remodel the story, although I knew that the doing so would leave it absolutely pointless. 13 “Oh, I’m so glad,” said Miss Sylvia, her eyes shining through her tears. “You see, I know it would make her happier—I know it. I’m going to tell you my poor little story to convince you. But you—you must not tell it to any of the others.” 14 “I know I can trust you. But it’s such a poor little story. You mustn’t laugh at it—it is all the romance I had. Years ago—forty years ago— when I was a young girl of twenty, I—learned to care very much for somebody. I met him at a summer resort like this. I was there with my aunt and he was there with his mother, who was delicate. We saw a great deal of each other for a little while. He was—oh, he was like no other man I had ever seen. You remind me of him somehow. That is partly why I like you so much. I noticed the resemblance the first time I saw you. He was not strong—he coughed a good deal. Then one day he went away— suddenly. I had thought he cared for me, but he never said so—just went away. Oh, the shame of it! After a time I heard that he had been ordered to California for his health. And he died out there the next spring. My heart broke then, I never cared for anybody again—I couldn’t. I have always loved him. But it would have been so much easier to bear if I had only known that he loved me—oh, it would have made all the difference in the world. And the sting of it has been there all these years. I can’t even permit myself the joy of dwelling on his memory because of the thought that perhaps he did not care.”

Q) What can be inferred about the narrator?

• He has little imagination.

• He is worried about Miss Sylvia.

• He studies people very carefully.

• He already knew Miss Sylvia’s story.

She always sat in a corner of the west veranda at the hotel, knitting something white and fluffy, or pink and fluffy, or pale blue and fluffy— always fluffy, at least, and always dainty. Shawls and scarfs and hoods the things were, I believe. When she finished one she gave it to some girl and began another. 2 She was old, with that beautiful, serene old age which is as beautiful in its way as youth. Her girlhood and womanhood must have been very lovely to have ripened into such a beauty of sixty years. 3 For the first two days after the arrival at the hotel she sat in her corner alone. There was always a circle of young people around her; old folks and middle-aged people would have liked to join it, but Miss Sylvia, while she was gracious to all, let it be distinctly understood that her sympathies were with youth. 4 Miss Sylvia liked us all, but I was her favorite. She told us so frankly and let it be understood that when I was talking to her and her shawl was allowed to slip under one arm it was a sign that we were not to be interrupted. 5 We were sitting together on the veranda at sunset. Most of the hotel people had gone for a harbor sail. 6 I was reading one of my stories to Miss Sylvia. In my own excuse I must allege that she tempted me to do it. Miss Sylvia had discovered that I was a magazine scribbler, and moreover, that I had shut myself up in my room that very morning and perpetrated a short story. Nothing would do but that I read it to her.

It was a rather sad little story. The hero loved the heroine, and she loved him. There was no reason why he should not love her, but there was a reason why he could not marry her. When he found that he loved her he knew that he must go away. But might he not, at least, tell her his love? Might he not, at least, find out for his consolation if she cared for him? There was a struggle; he won, and went away without a word, believing it to be the more manly course. 8 When I turned the last page of the manuscript and looked up, Miss Sylvia’s soft brown eyes were full of tears. She lifted her hands, clasped them together and said in an agitated voice: 9 “Oh, no, no; don’t let him go away without telling her—just telling her. Don’t let him do it!” 10 “But, you see, Miss Sylvia,” I explained, flattered beyond measure that my characters had seemed so real to her, “that would spoil the story. It would have no reason for existence then. Its motif is simply his mastery over self. He believes it to be the nobler course.” 11 “No, no, it wasn’t—if he loved her he should have told her. Think of her shame and humiliation—she loved him, and he went without a word and she could never know he cared for her. Oh, you must change it—you must, indeed! I cannot bear to think of her suffering what I have suffered.” 12 Miss Sylvia broke down and sobbed. To appease her, I promised that I would remodel the story, although I knew that the doing so would leave it absolutely pointless. 13 “Oh, I’m so glad,” said Miss Sylvia, her eyes shining through her tears. “You see, I know it would make her happier—I know it. I’m going to tell you my poor little story to convince you. But you—you must not tell it to any of the others.” 14 “I know I can trust you. But it’s such a poor little story. You mustn’t laugh at it—it is all the romance I had. Years ago—forty years ago— when I was a young girl of twenty, I—learned to care very much for somebody. I met him at a summer resort like this. I was there with my aunt and he was there with his mother, who was delicate. We saw a great deal of each other for a little while. He was—oh, he was like no other man I had ever seen. You remind me of him somehow. That is partly why I like you so much. I noticed the resemblance the first time I saw you. He was not strong—he coughed a good deal. Then one day he went away— suddenly. I had thought he cared for me, but he never said so—just went away. Oh, the shame of it! After a time I heard that he had been ordered to California for his health. And he died out there the next spring. My heart broke then, I never cared for anybody again—I couldn’t. I have always loved him. But it would have been so much easier to bear if I had only known that he loved me—oh, it would have made all the difference in the world. And the sting of it has been there all these years. I can’t even permit myself the joy of dwelling on his memory because of the thought that perhaps he did not care.”

Q) Which quotation from the passage supports the theme of the passage?

• “For the first two days after the arrival at the hotel she sat in her corner alone.”

• “Miss Sylvia liked us all, but I was her favorite.”

• “In my own excuse I must allege that she tempted me to do it.”

• “Oh, no, no; don’t let him go away without telling her—just telling her.”

She always sat in a corner of the west veranda at the hotel, knitting something white and fluffy, or pink and fluffy, or pale blue and fluffy— always fluffy, at least, and always dainty. Shawls and scarfs and hoods the things were, I believe. When she finished one she gave it to some girl and began another. 2 She was old, with that beautiful, serene old age which is as beautiful in its way as youth. Her girlhood and womanhood must have been very lovely to have ripened into such a beauty of sixty years. 3 For the first two days after the arrival at the hotel she sat in her corner alone. There was always a circle of young people around her; old folks and middle-aged people would have liked to join it, but Miss Sylvia, while she was gracious to all, let it be distinctly understood that her sympathies were with youth. 4 Miss Sylvia liked us all, but I was her favorite. She told us so frankly and let it be understood that when I was talking to her and her shawl was allowed to slip under one arm it was a sign that we were not to be interrupted. 5 We were sitting together on the veranda at sunset. Most of the hotel people had gone for a harbor sail. 6 I was reading one of my stories to Miss Sylvia. In my own excuse I must allege that she tempted me to do it. Miss Sylvia had discovered that I was a magazine scribbler, and moreover, that I had shut myself up in my room that very morning and perpetrated a short story. Nothing would do but that I read it to her.

It was a rather sad little story. The hero loved the heroine, and she loved him. There was no reason why he should not love her, but there was a reason why he could not marry her. When he found that he loved her he knew that he must go away. But might he not, at least, tell her his love? Might he not, at least, find out for his consolation if she cared for him? There was a struggle; he won, and went away without a word, believing it to be the more manly course. 8 When I turned the last page of the manuscript and looked up, Miss Sylvia’s soft brown eyes were full of tears. She lifted her hands, clasped them together and said in an agitated voice: 9 “Oh, no, no; don’t let him go away without telling her—just telling her. Don’t let him do it!” 10 “But, you see, Miss Sylvia,” I explained, flattered beyond measure that my characters had seemed so real to her, “that would spoil the story. It would have no reason for existence then. Its motif is simply his mastery over self. He believes it to be the nobler course.” 11 “No, no, it wasn’t—if he loved her he should have told her. Think of her shame and humiliation—she loved him, and he went without a word and she could never know he cared for her. Oh, you must change it—you must, indeed! I cannot bear to think of her suffering what I have suffered.” 12 Miss Sylvia broke down and sobbed. To appease her, I promised that I would remodel the story, although I knew that the doing so would leave it absolutely pointless. 13 “Oh, I’m so glad,” said Miss Sylvia, her eyes shining through her tears. “You see, I know it would make her happier—I know it. I’m going to tell you my poor little story to convince you. But you—you must not tell it to any of the others.” 14 “I know I can trust you. But it’s such a poor little story. You mustn’t laugh at it—it is all the romance I had. Years ago—forty years ago— when I was a young girl of twenty, I—learned to care very much for somebody. I met him at a summer resort like this. I was there with my aunt and he was there with his mother, who was delicate. We saw a great deal of each other for a little while. He was—oh, he was like no other man I had ever seen. You remind me of him somehow. That is partly why I like you so much. I noticed the resemblance the first time I saw you. He was not strong—he coughed a good deal. Then one day he went away— suddenly. I had thought he cared for me, but he never said so—just went away. Oh, the shame of it! After a time I heard that he had been ordered to California for his health. And he died out there the next spring. My heart broke then, I never cared for anybody again—I couldn’t. I have always loved him. But it would have been so much easier to bear if I had only known that he loved me—oh, it would have made all the difference in the world. And the sting of it has been there all these years. I can’t even permit myself the joy of dwelling on his memory because of the thought that perhaps he did not care.”

Q) What effect does the narrator’s story have on Miss Sylvia?

• It upsets her.

• It comforts her.

• It irritates her.

• It angers her.

Indicate each word that DESCRIBES Miss Sylvia.

• hostile

• caring

• friendly

• envious

• sensitive

She always sat in a corner of the west veranda at the hotel, knitting something white and fluffy, or pink and fluffy, or pale blue and fluffy— always fluffy, at least, and always dainty. Shawls and scarfs and hoods the things were, I believe. When she finished one she gave it to some girl and began another. 2 She was old, with that beautiful, serene old age which is as beautiful in its way as youth. Her girlhood and womanhood must have been very lovely to have ripened into such a beauty of sixty years. 3 For the first two days after the arrival at the hotel she sat in her corner alone. There was always a circle of young people around her; old folks and middle-aged people would have liked to join it, but Miss Sylvia, while she was gracious to all, let it be distinctly understood that her sympathies were with youth. 4 Miss Sylvia liked us all, but I was her favorite. She told us so frankly and let it be understood that when I was talking to her and her shawl was allowed to slip under one arm it was a sign that we were not to be interrupted. 5 We were sitting together on the veranda at sunset. Most of the hotel people had gone for a harbor sail. 6 I was reading one of my stories to Miss Sylvia. In my own excuse I must allege that she tempted me to do it. Miss Sylvia had discovered that I was a magazine scribbler, and moreover, that I had shut myself up in my room that very morning and perpetrated a short story. Nothing would do but that I read it to her.

It was a rather sad little story. The hero loved the heroine, and she loved him. There was no reason why he should not love her, but there was a reason why he could not marry her. When he found that he loved her he knew that he must go away. But might he not, at least, tell her his love? Might he not, at least, find out for his consolation if she cared for him? There was a struggle; he won, and went away without a word, believing it to be the more manly course. 8 When I turned the last page of the manuscript and looked up, Miss Sylvia’s soft brown eyes were full of tears. She lifted her hands, clasped them together and said in an agitated voice: 9 “Oh, no, no; don’t let him go away without telling her—just telling her. Don’t let him do it!” 10 “But, you see, Miss Sylvia,” I explained, flattered beyond measure that my characters had seemed so real to her, “that would spoil the story. It would have no reason for existence then. Its motif is simply his mastery over self. He believes it to be the nobler course.” 11 “No, no, it wasn’t—if he loved her he should have told her. Think of her shame and humiliation—she loved him, and he went without a word and she could never know he cared for her. Oh, you must change it—you must, indeed! I cannot bear to think of her suffering what I have suffered.” 12 Miss Sylvia broke down and sobbed. To appease her, I promised that I would remodel the story, although I knew that the doing so would leave it absolutely pointless. 13 “Oh, I’m so glad,” said Miss Sylvia, her eyes shining through her tears. “You see, I know it would make her happier—I know it. I’m going to tell you my poor little story to convince you. But you—you must not tell it to any of the others.” 14 “I know I can trust you. But it’s such a poor little story. You mustn’t laugh at it—it is all the romance I had. Years ago—forty years ago— when I was a young girl of twenty, I—learned to care very much for somebody. I met him at a summer resort like this. I was there with my aunt and he was there with his mother, who was delicate. We saw a great deal of each other for a little while. He was—oh, he was like no other man I had ever seen. You remind me of him somehow. That is partly why I like you so much. I noticed the resemblance the first time I saw you. He was not strong—he coughed a good deal. Then one day he went away— suddenly. I had thought he cared for me, but he never said so—just went away. Oh, the shame of it! After a time I heard that he had been ordered to California for his health. And he died out there the next spring. My heart broke then, I never cared for anybody again—I couldn’t. I have always loved him. But it would have been so much easier to bear if I had only known that he loved me—oh, it would have made all the difference in the world. And the sting of it has been there all these years. I can’t even permit myself the joy of dwelling on his memory because of the thought that perhaps he did not care.”

Q) Why is it so important to Miss Sylvia to have the ending of the story changed?

• It is so close to her own experience.

• She thinks it would improve the story.

• She feels the ending is overly complicated.

• She wants the narrator to make the story shorter.

The following letter contains several blanks. Indicate the choice from each set that is correct and belongs in the blank.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Taylor:

I want to welcome you to Heart Insurance. We operate our company as a family and think of our clients as extended family as well. ___________________. We hope that you will be pleased with every aspect of our performance. And I personally promise to act at once if you have any questions or desire any changes made to your policy.

• We are extremely pleased you has chosen us as your insurance company for your automobiles.

• We are extremely pleased you have chosen us as your insurance company for your automobiles.

• We are extremely pleased you have had to chosen us as your insurance company for your automobiles.

• We are extremely pleased you will have chosen us as your insurance company for your automobiles.

(...continuation) Heart Insurance is really a mom and pop ____________. At first we did everything ourselves to make it successful. After we began to grow and hired other employees, we realized that we needed to delegate some of our work to others, but that does not mean that we do not still oversee the operations very closely. We definitely know what is happening in the company.

• business, my wife and I started it fifteen years ago.

• business. Started it fifteen years ago.

• business. My wife and I started it fifteen years ago.

• business my wife and I started it fifteen years ago.

(...continuation) I would also like to point out that Heart may be able to save you money. Should you choose to insure your home with us as well, you would receive a five % discount on your insurance rates for both cars and home. We try to work with all our customers so that they can find the best deals for ______________. We are extremely competitive pricewise, so you might want to consider making that change. It’s just a thought, but it might be a wise decision on your part.

• himself.

• theirselves.

• yourselves.

• themselves.

(...continuation) I am enclosing other information for you about our services. _______________. We have many types of umbrella policies that can ensure you will rest easy and have no liability issues.

• Operating in all 50 of the United States, we are.

• We, operating in all 50 of the United States, we are.

• We operate in all 50 of the United States.

• Operating in all 50 of the United States are we.

(...continuation) Again, if you have any questions do not hesitate to _________. You can always reach us at our toll-free number, and when you call, you will speak to a person, not a machine. If you choose to write us, make sure to send your correspondence to our main headquarters in Chicago. The address is printed on the pamphlet I am sending you.

Again, welcome to Heart. We aim to please.

Sincerely,

Donald D. Heart

CEO Heart Insurance

• call and asking us.

• calling and asking us.

• call and ask us.

• calling and ask us.