English Reading Comprehension

Directions: Read the passage and fill up the 21^st blank with the most appropriate option.

Directions: Read the passage and fill up the 17^th blank with the most appropriate option.

Directions: Read the passage and fill up the 22^nd blank with the most appropriate option.

Directions: Read the passage and fill up the 18^th blank with the most appropriate option.

Directions: Read the passage and fill up the 23^rd blank with the most appropriate option.

Directions: Read the passage and fill up the 25^th blank with the most appropriate option.

What is the main purpose of the passage?

Directions: Answer the given question based on the following passage:

Mother Teresa will soon become a saint. But this celebration of the divine in a human being has turned out to be as good a moment as any to fight about all the worldly things that usually get fought about in the Balkans: namely, religion, ethnicity and history. The conflict centres on an attempt, so far unsuccessful, to donate a statue of Mother Teresa to the city of Rome. It is a simple enough dispute on one level, but on another, reflects the strains that have made it so hard to stitch together Balkan societies. The tale begins with a solitary fact that no one disputes: Agnes Gonxha Bojaxhiu, who became the world's most famous Roman Catholic missionary, universally known as Mother Teresa, was born in August 1910 in Skopje. (As for the exact date, some say she was born on Aug. 26, others Aug. 27.) The city was then an especially mixed corner of the Ottoman Empire, home to Turks, Greeks, Serbs, Bulgarians, Macedonians, Gypsies, Jews, Vlachs and Albanians, which is what Mother Teresa always said she was.

After Mother Teresa's death in 1997, one of Macedonia's most famous artists, Tome Serafimovski, fashioned a 9–ft bronze statue of her that now stands in downtown Skopje. As the Vatican moved to make her a saint, Mr. Serafimovski decided to donate a copy to Rome. Its delivery was to coincide with her expected beatification, the last step before sainthood, in October. But then last month, an Albanian newspaper in Skopje, Fakti, carried a sensational scoop: the statue, it reported from Italy, was to have an inscription identifying her as "a Macedonian daughter." Albanian leaders were outraged. This was an attempt, they said, by the Macedonians to claim Mother Teresa as one of their own. The inscription, one Albanian political party charged, "undermines the Albanian national identity and represents usurpation of Mother Teresa's origin." Ethnic Albanians make up perhaps a quarter, though some say a third or more, of Macedonia's 2 million people. (No one knows for certain and, like much else, it is argued over bitterly.) The largest national group here are often considered Slavs. But many Macedonians contend hotly that they are in fact not Slavs, but have descended from ancient Macedonians like Alexander the Great. Whatever their descent, they fought a brief conflict with ethnic Albanians seeking greater political rights in 2001.

Mother Teresa has now emerged as yet another strain in this larger tug of war. What complicates matters further is that she was Roman Catholic, while most Albanians are Muslim, and this has opened a crack for speculation about Mother Teresa's actual ethnic roots. Jasmina Mironski, a prominent Macedonian journalist who has written two books on Mother Teresa, says there is no doubt that Mother Teresa's own mother, Dranafila Bernaj, was an ethnic Albanian. But her father, Nikola Bojaxhiu, was "the tricky combination." She says the "u" that ends his name made him more likely a Vlach, a non–Slavic Orthodox people also called Walachians. Plus, she said, Mother Teresa "didn't speak Albanian, that's for sure. She only knew five words of Albanian." Moreover, her brother's name was Lazar, the name of Serbia's most famous prince. This is heresy to Albanians, who say they have been repeatedly persecuted by Serbs. The debate has leached out from Macedonia to intellectuals in Albania proper, who in July wrote in anger to the Mayor of Rome urging him to resist the effort "to usurp the figure and deeds of Mother Teresa," as well as to Internet chat rooms read by Macedonians around the world. All sides say, naturally, that their only interest is to see Mother Teresa's life celebrated, but with the maximum truth possible.

With the argument still raging, Mayor Risto Penov of Skopje, who is overseeing the donation of the statue, said there was never a plan for an inscription that mentioned a "Macedonian daughter." He said the idea is now the same as it always was, for an inscription that reads simply: "Born Skopje 26 August 1910. Died Calcutta 5 September 1997." "Now we have a person who can put us together again — and we're dividing ourselves," he said. But the editors at Fakti insist their report was right.

Mr. Serafimovski said he has had it with all the bickering. No statue will be donated, he said, until the issue was resolved. He opposes anything that even hints that Mother Teresa was Macedonian (even if he believes her father was Vlach). At Mother Teresa's own order in Skopje, yet another view seemed to prevail about this woman who left Skopje at the age of 18. An Italian nun who declined to be named said that Mother Teresa unquestionably spoke Albanian, among other languages, but felt the strongest affinity with another part of the world entirely.

"Most of her life, she spent in Calcutta," she declared. "She felt more Indian than any other citizenship."— New York Times

The passage does not answer which one of the following questions?

Directions: Answer the given question based on the following passage:

Mother Teresa will soon become a saint. But this celebration of the divine in a human being has turned out to be as good a moment as any to fight about all the worldly things that usually get fought about in the Balkans: namely, religion, ethnicity and history. The conflict centres on an attempt, so far unsuccessful, to donate a statue of Mother Teresa to the city of Rome. It is a simple enough dispute on one level, but on another, reflects the strains that have made it so hard to stitch together Balkan societies. The tale begins with a solitary fact that no one disputes: Agnes Gonxha Bojaxhiu, who became the world's most famous Roman Catholic missionary, universally known as Mother Teresa, was born in August 1910 in Skopje. (As for the exact date, some say she was born on Aug. 26, others Aug. 27.) The city was then an especially mixed corner of the Ottoman Empire, home to Turks, Greeks, Serbs, Bulgarians, Macedonians, Gypsies, Jews, Vlachs and Albanians, which is what Mother Teresa always said she was.

After Mother Teresa's death in 1997, one of Macedonia's most famous artists, Tome Serafimovski, fashioned a 9–ft bronze statue of her that now stands in downtown Skopje. As the Vatican moved to make her a saint, Mr. Serafimovski decided to donate a copy to Rome. Its delivery was to coincide with her expected beatification, the last step before sainthood, in October. But then last month, an Albanian newspaper in Skopje, Fakti, carried a sensational scoop: the statue, it reported from Italy, was to have an inscription identifying her as "a Macedonian daughter." Albanian leaders were outraged. This was an attempt, they said, by the Macedonians to claim Mother Teresa as one of their own. The inscription, one Albanian political party charged, "undermines the Albanian national identity and represents usurpation of Mother Teresa's origin." Ethnic Albanians make up perhaps a quarter, though some say a third or more, of Macedonia's 2 million people. (No one knows for certain and, like much else, it is argued over bitterly.) The largest national group here are often considered Slavs. But many Macedonians contend hotly that they are in fact not Slavs, but have descended from ancient Macedonians like Alexander the Great. Whatever their descent, they fought a brief conflict with ethnic Albanians seeking greater political rights in 2001.

Mother Teresa has now emerged as yet another strain in this larger tug of war. What complicates matters further is that she was Roman Catholic, while most Albanians are Muslim, and this has opened a crack for speculation about Mother Teresa's actual ethnic roots. Jasmina Mironski, a prominent Macedonian journalist who has written two books on Mother Teresa, says there is no doubt that Mother Teresa's own mother, Dranafila Bernaj, was an ethnic Albanian. But her father, Nikola Bojaxhiu, was "the tricky combination." She says the "u" that ends his name made him more likely a Vlach, a non–Slavic Orthodox people also called Walachians. Plus, she said, Mother Teresa "didn't speak Albanian, that's for sure. She only knew five words of Albanian." Moreover, her brother's name was Lazar, the name of Serbia's most famous prince. This is heresy to Albanians, who say they have been repeatedly persecuted by Serbs. The debate has leached out from Macedonia to intellectuals in Albania proper, who in July wrote in anger to the Mayor of Rome urging him to resist the effort "to usurp the figure and deeds of Mother Teresa," as well as to Internet chat rooms read by Macedonians around the world. All sides say, naturally, that their only interest is to see Mother Teresa's life celebrated, but with the maximum truth possible.

With the argument still raging, Mayor Risto Penov of Skopje, who is overseeing the donation of the statue, said there was never a plan for an inscription that mentioned a "Macedonian daughter." He said the idea is now the same as it always was, for an inscription that reads simply: "Born Skopje 26 August 1910. Died Calcutta 5 September 1997." "Now we have a person who can put us together again — and we're dividing ourselves," he said. But the editors at Fakti insist their report was right.

Mr. Serafimovski said he has had it with all the bickering. No statue will be donated, he said, until the issue was resolved. He opposes anything that even hints that Mother Teresa was Macedonian (even if he believes her father was Vlach). At Mother Teresa's own order in Skopje, yet another view seemed to prevail about this woman who left Skopje at the age of 18. An Italian nun who declined to be named said that Mother Teresa unquestionably spoke Albanian, among other languages, but felt the strongest affinity with another part of the world entirely.

"Most of her life, she spent in Calcutta," she declared. "She felt more Indian than any other citizenship."— New York Times

It is reasonable to infer from the passage that Mrs. Sennett asked, ''Are those children making too much noise?'' because Mrs. Sennett _________.

Directions: Answer the given question based on the following passage:

Outside, the rain continued to run down the screened windows of Mrs. Sennett's little Cape Cod cottage. The long weeds and grass that composed the front yard dripped against the blurred background of the bay, where the water was almost the color of the grass. Mrs. Sennett's five charges were vigorously playing house in the dining room. (In the wintertime, Mrs. Sennett was housekeeper for Mr. Curley, in Boston, and during the summers the Curley children boarded with her on the Cape.)

My expression must have changed. Are those children making too much noise? Mrs. Sennett demanded, a sort of wave going over her that might mark the beginning of her getting up out of her chair. I shook my head in no, and gave her a little push on the shoulder to keep her seated. Mrs. Sennett was almost stone–deaf and had been for a long time, but she could read lips. You could talk to her without making any sound yourself, if you wanted to, and she more than kept up her side of the conversation in a loud, rusty voice that dropped weirdly every now and then into a whisper. She adored talking.

To look at Mrs. Sennett made me think of eighteenth–century England and its literary figures. Her hair must have been sadly thin, because she always wore, indoors and out, either a hat or a sort of turban, and sometimes she wore both. The rims of her eyes were dark; she looked very ill.

Mrs. Sennett and I continued talking. She said she really didn't think she'd stay with the children another winter. Their father wanted her to, but it was too much for her. She wanted to stay right here in the cottage. The afternoon was getting along, and I finally left because I knew that at four o'clock Mrs. Sennett's sit down was over and she started to get supper. At six o'clock, from my nearby cottage, I saw Theresa coming through the rain with a shawl over her head. She was bringing me a six–inch–square piece of spice cake, still hot from the oven and kept warm between two soup plates.

A few days later I learned from the twins, who brought over gifts of firewood and blackberries, that their father was coming the next morning, bringing their aunt and her husband and their cousin. Mrs. Sennett had promised to take them all on a picnic at the pond some pleasant day. On the fourth day of their visit, Xavier arrived with a note. It was from Mrs. Sennett, written in blue ink, in a large, serene, ornamented hand, on linen–finish paper:

Tomorrow is the last day Mr. Curley has and the Children all wanted the Picnic so much. The Men can walk to the Pond but it is too far for the Children. I see your Friend has a car and I hate to ask this but could you possibly drive us to the Pond tomorrow morning?

Very sincerely yours, 
Carmen Sennett

One evening, Mary came to call on me and we sat on an old table in the back yard to watch the sunset. Papa came today, she said, and we've got to go back day after tomorrow.

Is Mrs. Sennett going to stay here? 
She said at supper she was. She said this time she really was, because she'd said that last year she came back, but now she means it. 
I said, Oh dear, scarcely knowing which side I was on.
It was awful at supper. I cried and cried. 
Did Theresa cry? 
Oh, we all cried. Papa cried, too. We always do.
But don't you think Mrs. Sennett needs a rest? 
Yes, but I think she'll come, though. Papa told her he'd cry every single night at supper if she didn't, and then we all did. 
The next day I heard that Mrs. Sennett was going back with them just to help settle. She came over the following morning to say goodbye, supported by all five children. She was wearing her traveling hat of black satin and black straw, with sequins. High and somber, above her ravaged face, it had quite a Spanish–grandee air.

This isn't really goodbye, she said. I'll be back as soon as I get these bad, noisy children off my 
hands.  But the children hung on to her skirt and tugged at her sleeves, shaking their heads frantically, silently saying, No! No! No! to her with their puckered–up mouths.

What is the main insight suggested by the conversation given in the passage?

Directions: Answer the given question based on the following passage:

Outside, the rain continued to run down the screened windows of Mrs. Sennett's little Cape Cod cottage. The long weeds and grass that composed the front yard dripped against the blurred background of the bay, where the water was almost the color of the grass. Mrs. Sennett's five charges were vigorously playing house in the dining room. (In the wintertime, Mrs. Sennett was housekeeper for Mr. Curley, in Boston, and during the summers the Curley children boarded with her on the Cape.)

My expression must have changed. Are those children making too much noise? Mrs. Sennett demanded, a sort of wave going over her that might mark the beginning of her getting up out of her chair. I shook my head in no, and gave her a little push on the shoulder to keep her seated. Mrs. Sennett was almost stone–deaf and had been for a long time, but she could read lips. You could talk to her without making any sound yourself, if you wanted to, and she more than kept up her side of the conversation in a loud, rusty voice that dropped weirdly every now and then into a whisper. She adored talking.

To look at Mrs. Sennett made me think of eighteenth–century England and its literary figures. Her hair must have been sadly thin, because she always wore, indoors and out, either a hat or a sort of turban, and sometimes she wore both. The rims of her eyes were dark; she looked very ill.

Mrs. Sennett and I continued talking. She said she really didn't think she'd stay with the children another winter. Their father wanted her to, but it was too much for her. She wanted to stay right here in the cottage. The afternoon was getting along, and I finally left because I knew that at four o'clock Mrs. Sennett's sit down was over and she started to get supper. At six o'clock, from my nearby cottage, I saw Theresa coming through the rain with a shawl over her head. She was bringing me a six–inch–square piece of spice cake, still hot from the oven and kept warm between two soup plates.

A few days later I learned from the twins, who brought over gifts of firewood and blackberries, that their father was coming the next morning, bringing their aunt and her husband and their cousin. Mrs. Sennett had promised to take them all on a picnic at the pond some pleasant day. On the fourth day of their visit, Xavier arrived with a note. It was from Mrs. Sennett, written in blue ink, in a large, serene, ornamented hand, on linen–finish paper:

Tomorrow is the last day Mr. Curley has and the Children all wanted the Picnic so much. The Men can walk to the Pond but it is too far for the Children. I see your Friend has a car and I hate to ask this but could you possibly drive us to the Pond tomorrow morning?

Very sincerely yours, 
Carmen Sennett

One evening, Mary came to call on me and we sat on an old table in the back yard to watch the sunset. Papa came today, she said, and we've got to go back day after tomorrow.

Is Mrs. Sennett going to stay here? 
She said at supper she was. She said this time she really was, because she'd said that last year she came back, but now she means it. 
I said, Oh dear, scarcely knowing which side I was on.
It was awful at supper. I cried and cried. 
Did Theresa cry? 
Oh, we all cried. Papa cried, too. We always do.
But don't you think Mrs. Sennett needs a rest? 
Yes, but I think she'll come, though. Papa told her he'd cry every single night at supper if she didn't, and then we all did. 
The next day I heard that Mrs. Sennett was going back with them just to help settle. She came over the following morning to say goodbye, supported by all five children. She was wearing her traveling hat of black satin and black straw, with sequins. High and somber, above her ravaged face, it had quite a Spanish–grandee air.

This isn't really goodbye, she said. I'll be back as soon as I get these bad, noisy children off my 
hands.  But the children hung on to her skirt and tugged at her sleeves, shaking their heads frantically, silently saying, No! No! No! to her with their puckered–up mouths.

Considering the events of the entire passage, it is most reasonable to infer that Mrs. Sennett calls the children bad because she ________.

Directions: Answer the given question based on the following passage:

Outside, the rain continued to run down the screened windows of Mrs. Sennett's little Cape Cod cottage. The long weeds and grass that composed the front yard dripped against the blurred background of the bay, where the water was almost the color of the grass. Mrs. Sennett's five charges were vigorously playing house in the dining room. (In the wintertime, Mrs. Sennett was housekeeper for Mr. Curley, in Boston, and during the summers the Curley children boarded with her on the Cape.)

My expression must have changed. Are those children making too much noise? Mrs. Sennett demanded, a sort of wave going over her that might mark the beginning of her getting up out of her chair. I shook my head in no, and gave her a little push on the shoulder to keep her seated. Mrs. Sennett was almost stone–deaf and had been for a long time, but she could read lips. You could talk to her without making any sound yourself, if you wanted to, and she more than kept up her side of the conversation in a loud, rusty voice that dropped weirdly every now and then into a whisper. She adored talking.

To look at Mrs. Sennett made me think of eighteenth–century England and its literary figures. Her hair must have been sadly thin, because she always wore, indoors and out, either a hat or a sort of turban, and sometimes she wore both. The rims of her eyes were dark; she looked very ill.

Mrs. Sennett and I continued talking. She said she really didn't think she'd stay with the children another winter. Their father wanted her to, but it was too much for her. She wanted to stay right here in the cottage. The afternoon was getting along, and I finally left because I knew that at four o'clock Mrs. Sennett's sit down was over and she started to get supper. At six o'clock, from my nearby cottage, I saw Theresa coming through the rain with a shawl over her head. She was bringing me a six–inch–square piece of spice cake, still hot from the oven and kept warm between two soup plates.

A few days later I learned from the twins, who brought over gifts of firewood and blackberries, that their father was coming the next morning, bringing their aunt and her husband and their cousin. Mrs. Sennett had promised to take them all on a picnic at the pond some pleasant day. On the fourth day of their visit, Xavier arrived with a note. It was from Mrs. Sennett, written in blue ink, in a large, serene, ornamented hand, on linen–finish paper:

Tomorrow is the last day Mr. Curley has and the Children all wanted the Picnic so much. The Men can walk to the Pond but it is too far for the Children. I see your Friend has a car and I hate to ask this but could you possibly drive us to the Pond tomorrow morning?

Very sincerely yours, 
Carmen Sennett

One evening, Mary came to call on me and we sat on an old table in the back yard to watch the sunset. Papa came today, she said, and we've got to go back day after tomorrow.

Is Mrs. Sennett going to stay here? 
She said at supper she was. She said this time she really was, because she'd said that last year she came back, but now she means it. 
I said, Oh dear, scarcely knowing which side I was on.
It was awful at supper. I cried and cried. 
Did Theresa cry? 
Oh, we all cried. Papa cried, too. We always do.
But don't you think Mrs. Sennett needs a rest? 
Yes, but I think she'll come, though. Papa told her he'd cry every single night at supper if she didn't, and then we all did. 
The next day I heard that Mrs. Sennett was going back with them just to help settle. She came over the following morning to say goodbye, supported by all five children. She was wearing her traveling hat of black satin and black straw, with sequins. High and somber, above her ravaged face, it had quite a Spanish–grandee air.

This isn't really goodbye, she said. I'll be back as soon as I get these bad, noisy children off my 
hands.  But the children hung on to her skirt and tugged at her sleeves, shaking their heads frantically, silently saying, No! No! No! to her with their puckered–up mouths.

Considering how Mrs. Sennett is portrayed in the passage, it is most reasonable to infer that the word ravaged, as it is used, most nearly means that her face reveals _______.

Directions: Answer the given question based on the following passage:

Outside, the rain continued to run down the screened windows of Mrs. Sennett's little Cape Cod cottage. The long weeds and grass that composed the front yard dripped against the blurred background of the bay, where the water was almost the color of the grass. Mrs. Sennett's five charges were vigorously playing house in the dining room. (In the wintertime, Mrs. Sennett was housekeeper for Mr. Curley, in Boston, and during the summers the Curley children boarded with her on the Cape.)

My expression must have changed. Are those children making too much noise? Mrs. Sennett demanded, a sort of wave going over her that might mark the beginning of her getting up out of her chair. I shook my head in no, and gave her a little push on the shoulder to keep her seated. Mrs. Sennett was almost stone–deaf and had been for a long time, but she could read lips. You could talk to her without making any sound yourself, if you wanted to, and she more than kept up her side of the conversation in a loud, rusty voice that dropped weirdly every now and then into a whisper. She adored talking.

To look at Mrs. Sennett made me think of eighteenth–century England and its literary figures. Her hair must have been sadly thin, because she always wore, indoors and out, either a hat or a sort of turban, and sometimes she wore both. The rims of her eyes were dark; she looked very ill.

Mrs. Sennett and I continued talking. She said she really didn't think she'd stay with the children another winter. Their father wanted her to, but it was too much for her. She wanted to stay right here in the cottage. The afternoon was getting along, and I finally left because I knew that at four o'clock Mrs. Sennett's sit down was over and she started to get supper. At six o'clock, from my nearby cottage, I saw Theresa coming through the rain with a shawl over her head. She was bringing me a six–inch–square piece of spice cake, still hot from the oven and kept warm between two soup plates.

A few days later I learned from the twins, who brought over gifts of firewood and blackberries, that their father was coming the next morning, bringing their aunt and her husband and their cousin. Mrs. Sennett had promised to take them all on a picnic at the pond some pleasant day. On the fourth day of their visit, Xavier arrived with a note. It was from Mrs. Sennett, written in blue ink, in a large, serene, ornamented hand, on linen–finish paper:

Tomorrow is the last day Mr. Curley has and the Children all wanted the Picnic so much. The Men can walk to the Pond but it is too far for the Children. I see your Friend has a car and I hate to ask this but could you possibly drive us to the Pond tomorrow morning?

Very sincerely yours, 
Carmen Sennett

One evening, Mary came to call on me and we sat on an old table in the back yard to watch the sunset. Papa came today, she said, and we've got to go back day after tomorrow.

Is Mrs. Sennett going to stay here? 
She said at supper she was. She said this time she really was, because she'd said that last year she came back, but now she means it. 
I said, Oh dear, scarcely knowing which side I was on.
It was awful at supper. I cried and cried. 
Did Theresa cry? 
Oh, we all cried. Papa cried, too. We always do.
But don't you think Mrs. Sennett needs a rest? 
Yes, but I think she'll come, though. Papa told her he'd cry every single night at supper if she didn't, and then we all did. 
The next day I heard that Mrs. Sennett was going back with them just to help settle. She came over the following morning to say goodbye, supported by all five children. She was wearing her traveling hat of black satin and black straw, with sequins. High and somber, above her ravaged face, it had quite a Spanish–grandee air.

This isn't really goodbye, she said. I'll be back as soon as I get these bad, noisy children off my 
hands.  But the children hung on to her skirt and tugged at her sleeves, shaking their heads frantically, silently saying, No! No! No! to her with their puckered–up mouths.

The details and events in the passage suggest that the friendship between the narrator and Mrs. Sennett would most accurately be described as ________.

Directions: Answer the given question based on the following passage:

Outside, the rain continued to run down the screened windows of Mrs. Sennett's little Cape Cod cottage. The long weeds and grass that composed the front yard dripped against the blurred background of the bay, where the water was almost the color of the grass. Mrs. Sennett's five charges were vigorously playing house in the dining room. (In the wintertime, Mrs. Sennett was housekeeper for Mr. Curley, in Boston, and during the summers the Curley children boarded with her on the Cape.)

My expression must have changed. Are those children making too much noise? Mrs. Sennett demanded, a sort of wave going over her that might mark the beginning of her getting up out of her chair. I shook my head in no, and gave her a little push on the shoulder to keep her seated. Mrs. Sennett was almost stone–deaf and had been for a long time, but she could read lips. You could talk to her without making any sound yourself, if you wanted to, and she more than kept up her side of the conversation in a loud, rusty voice that dropped weirdly every now and then into a whisper. She adored talking.

To look at Mrs. Sennett made me think of eighteenth–century England and its literary figures. Her hair must have been sadly thin, because she always wore, indoors and out, either a hat or a sort of turban, and sometimes she wore both. The rims of her eyes were dark; she looked very ill.

Mrs. Sennett and I continued talking. She said she really didn't think she'd stay with the children another winter. Their father wanted her to, but it was too much for her. She wanted to stay right here in the cottage. The afternoon was getting along, and I finally left because I knew that at four o'clock Mrs. Sennett's sit down was over and she started to get supper. At six o'clock, from my nearby cottage, I saw Theresa coming through the rain with a shawl over her head. She was bringing me a six–inch–square piece of spice cake, still hot from the oven and kept warm between two soup plates.

A few days later I learned from the twins, who brought over gifts of firewood and blackberries, that their father was coming the next morning, bringing their aunt and her husband and their cousin. Mrs. Sennett had promised to take them all on a picnic at the pond some pleasant day. On the fourth day of their visit, Xavier arrived with a note. It was from Mrs. Sennett, written in blue ink, in a large, serene, ornamented hand, on linen–finish paper:

Tomorrow is the last day Mr. Curley has and the Children all wanted the Picnic so much. The Men can walk to the Pond but it is too far for the Children. I see your Friend has a car and I hate to ask this but could you possibly drive us to the Pond tomorrow morning?

Very sincerely yours, 
Carmen Sennett

One evening, Mary came to call on me and we sat on an old table in the back yard to watch the sunset. Papa came today, she said, and we've got to go back day after tomorrow.

Is Mrs. Sennett going to stay here? 
She said at supper she was. She said this time she really was, because she'd said that last year she came back, but now she means it. 
I said, Oh dear, scarcely knowing which side I was on.
It was awful at supper. I cried and cried. 
Did Theresa cry? 
Oh, we all cried. Papa cried, too. We always do.
But don't you think Mrs. Sennett needs a rest? 
Yes, but I think she'll come, though. Papa told her he'd cry every single night at supper if she didn't, and then we all did. 
The next day I heard that Mrs. Sennett was going back with them just to help settle. She came over the following morning to say goodbye, supported by all five children. She was wearing her traveling hat of black satin and black straw, with sequins. High and somber, above her ravaged face, it had quite a Spanish–grandee air.

This isn't really goodbye, she said. I'll be back as soon as I get these bad, noisy children off my 
hands.  But the children hung on to her skirt and tugged at her sleeves, shaking their heads frantically, silently saying, No! No! No! to her with their puckered–up mouths.

Given the evidence provided throughout the passage, the children probably silently mouth the word no because ________

Directions: Answer the given question based on the following passage:

Outside, the rain continued to run down the screened windows of Mrs. Sennett's little Cape Cod cottage. The long weeds and grass that composed the front yard dripped against the blurred background of the bay, where the water was almost the color of the grass. Mrs. Sennett's five charges were vigorously playing house in the dining room. (In the wintertime, Mrs. Sennett was housekeeper for Mr. Curley, in Boston, and during the summers the Curley children boarded with her on the Cape.)

My expression must have changed. Are those children making too much noise? Mrs. Sennett demanded, a sort of wave going over her that might mark the beginning of her getting up out of her chair. I shook my head in no, and gave her a little push on the shoulder to keep her seated. Mrs. Sennett was almost stone–deaf and had been for a long time, but she could read lips. You could talk to her without making any sound yourself, if you wanted to, and she more than kept up her side of the conversation in a loud, rusty voice that dropped weirdly every now and then into a whisper. She adored talking.

To look at Mrs. Sennett made me think of eighteenth–century England and its literary figures. Her hair must have been sadly thin, because she always wore, indoors and out, either a hat or a sort of turban, and sometimes she wore both. The rims of her eyes were dark; she looked very ill.

Mrs. Sennett and I continued talking. She said she really didn't think she'd stay with the children another winter. Their father wanted her to, but it was too much for her. She wanted to stay right here in the cottage. The afternoon was getting along, and I finally left because I knew that at four o'clock Mrs. Sennett's sit down was over and she started to get supper. At six o'clock, from my nearby cottage, I saw Theresa coming through the rain with a shawl over her head. She was bringing me a six–inch–square piece of spice cake, still hot from the oven and kept warm between two soup plates.

A few days later I learned from the twins, who brought over gifts of firewood and blackberries, that their father was coming the next morning, bringing their aunt and her husband and their cousin. Mrs. Sennett had promised to take them all on a picnic at the pond some pleasant day. On the fourth day of their visit, Xavier arrived with a note. It was from Mrs. Sennett, written in blue ink, in a large, serene, ornamented hand, on linen–finish paper:

Tomorrow is the last day Mr. Curley has and the Children all wanted the Picnic so much. The Men can walk to the Pond but it is too far for the Children. I see your Friend has a car and I hate to ask this but could you possibly drive us to the Pond tomorrow morning?

Very sincerely yours, 
Carmen Sennett

One evening, Mary came to call on me and we sat on an old table in the back yard to watch the sunset. Papa came today, she said, and we've got to go back day after tomorrow.

Is Mrs. Sennett going to stay here? 
She said at supper she was. She said this time she really was, because she'd said that last year she came back, but now she means it. 
I said, Oh dear, scarcely knowing which side I was on.
It was awful at supper. I cried and cried. 
Did Theresa cry? 
Oh, we all cried. Papa cried, too. We always do.
But don't you think Mrs. Sennett needs a rest? 
Yes, but I think she'll come, though. Papa told her he'd cry every single night at supper if she didn't, and then we all did. 
The next day I heard that Mrs. Sennett was going back with them just to help settle. She came over the following morning to say goodbye, supported by all five children. She was wearing her traveling hat of black satin and black straw, with sequins. High and somber, above her ravaged face, it had quite a Spanish–grandee air.

This isn't really goodbye, she said. I'll be back as soon as I get these bad, noisy children off my 
hands.  But the children hung on to her skirt and tugged at her sleeves, shaking their heads frantically, silently saying, No! No! No! to her with their puckered–up mouths.