English Language

English Reading Comprehension

2,692 Questions

English reading comprehension questions assess the ability to understand, analyze, and interpret written passages. Formats include paragraph rearrangement, cloze tests, and fact finding from text. Regular practice is essential for scoring well in the English sections of banking, SSC, and railway exams.

Passage based inferenceParagraph rearrangementCloze test fillingVocabulary replacementReading accuracy tests

English Reading Comprehension Questions

Multiple choice

What is the meaning of sauce?

Directions: Read the following passage and answer the question.  

Phil was seated behind his desk signing papers when the phone rang. He picked it up. I told you I didn't want to talk to him. You mean he's here? Ingersoll's here? He paused, collecting his thoughts. Haven't I told you - didn't you tell him, I'm in a meeting? Oh, hell, then send him in.
      Phil's office, on the thirty-ninth floor of one of Chicago's newest skyscrapers, was opulently furnished. Papers were stacked neatly on one corner of his immaculate desk. On the other corner stood a framed photograph of his wife and children. Behind the desk was a massive window looking over the lower buildings of the loop for a distance of twenty miles on a clear day. Along the wall opposite to desk was a couch. Two comfortable visitor chairs immediately faced the desk.
      As tall, seventy-years-old Ingersoll breezed in, Phil, beaming rose from behind his desk to shake his hand. Calvin! What a surprise, he exclaimed. Good to see you again.
      Same here, my friend - my old friend, said Cal, beaming as well and taking Phil's hand.
       Please sit. Sit down, by all means, said Phil directing him to one of the chairs before his desk. Tell me, Cal, how long would you say it's been?
        You mean -
      I mean since we've actually seen each other. Of course, we've talked on the phone. That little business matter, y'know and -
      I'd say - perhaps ten years, more or less, said Cal.
      Oh, all of that. Ten years, at least. It was at Flaunteroy's Tavern, wasn't it? said Phil settling back in his velour upholstered chair.
      Ah, yes. Excellent cuisine, I must say, said Cal grinning.
      You were coming out of the bar, as I recall.
      Sober, I presume, said Cal with a laugh.
      Glowing is more like it. You were exceptionally cordial.
      My glow had to be genuine - I believe. Yes, I was delighted to see you - after- how long had it been then?
      A good twenty-five years. As of now we've seen each other only twice in thirty-five years. I'd hardly call it a close friendship, right Cal?
      Of course, Phil, in between there have been Christmas cards - and you're often in my thoughts, my friend, Cal said in defence.
      Sure. Well, how is it going at the college? said Phil, offering a reprieve.
I'm a professor emeritus now.
      Finally retired, eh?
       He's quite. I must teach, you know, so they allow me an English Literature course now and then - a mere bone, a way of easing me out rather painlessly, you know.
      You certainly seem to be ageing well, Cal.
      Actually, I'm quite fit, said Cal crossing one knee over the other. Be advised, my friend, alcohol is a poor preservative for human protoplasm. I'm quite off the sauce nowadays.
      Glad to hear it. Well -
      Hardly as much fun - sobriety's really a bore, you know, Cal said laughing but he stopped when he saw that Phil, showing a hint of impatience, didn't join in.
      You were saying over the phone -
      I hope I'm not intruding. I had to talk to you personally, Phil.
      You mean about money again? said Phil, picking up and fingering a gold pen.
      In point of fact, Phil, this time it's not for myself. My roommate -
      Your roommate? said Phil, eyebrows raised. In the old days, I remember, when I suggested we share an apartment you insisted on living alone.
      Times have changed, Phil. You might say, my lover, then. That's the long and short of it. I see no point in pretending.
      I see. And she's in trouble, is that it?
      Trouble, yes, said Cal, hesitating as he formulated his revelation. He's quite addicted, you know. Very, very unfortunate. But now realising how futile his habit is, he's quite ready to submit to detoxification. However, as you know, it's quite expensive - or perhaps you didn't know, and as it so happens, I'm still somewhat short myself - rest assured, Phil, I'll pay you back. I insist that it be only a loan.
      Just a minute, said Phil sitting upright from a slouch. What happened to the five hundred dollar cheque I sent you last week?
      As I explained - I thought I had explained - that was for my car insurance.
      Yes, that's what you said, but now -
      It's not for myself this time, Phil. Five hundred dollars, that's all. As I said, it would be merely a loan. I would repay it in due time, I assure you, in due time. Of course, I'd consider no other terms. You see, Phil, when I receive my social security payment first of the month I should be able to -
      You were never very good at managing money, were you Cal?

  1. liquid dressing or topping for food

  2. starter

  3. first course

  4. gives relish
Reveal answer Fill a bubble to check yourself
A Correct answer
Explanation

sauce is something which adds flavour zest

Multiple choice

What is the meaning of slouch?

Directions: Read the following passage and answer the question.  

Phil was seated behind his desk signing papers when the phone rang. He picked it up. I told you I didn't want to talk to him. You mean he's here? Ingersoll's here? He paused, collecting his thoughts. Haven't I told you - didn't you tell him, I'm in a meeting? Oh, hell, then send him in.
      Phil's office, on the thirty-ninth floor of one of Chicago's newest skyscrapers, was opulently furnished. Papers were stacked neatly on one corner of his immaculate desk. On the other corner stood a framed photograph of his wife and children. Behind the desk was a massive window looking over the lower buildings of the loop for a distance of twenty miles on a clear day. Along the wall opposite to desk was a couch. Two comfortable visitor chairs immediately faced the desk.
      As tall, seventy-years-old Ingersoll breezed in, Phil, beaming rose from behind his desk to shake his hand. Calvin! What a surprise, he exclaimed. Good to see you again.
      Same here, my friend - my old friend, said Cal, beaming as well and taking Phil's hand.
       Please sit. Sit down, by all means, said Phil directing him to one of the chairs before his desk. Tell me, Cal, how long would you say it's been?
        You mean -
      I mean since we've actually seen each other. Of course, we've talked on the phone. That little business matter, y'know and -
      I'd say - perhaps ten years, more or less, said Cal.
      Oh, all of that. Ten years, at least. It was at Flaunteroy's Tavern, wasn't it? said Phil settling back in his velour upholstered chair.
      Ah, yes. Excellent cuisine, I must say, said Cal grinning.
      You were coming out of the bar, as I recall.
      Sober, I presume, said Cal with a laugh.
      Glowing is more like it. You were exceptionally cordial.
      My glow had to be genuine - I believe. Yes, I was delighted to see you - after- how long had it been then?
      A good twenty-five years. As of now we've seen each other only twice in thirty-five years. I'd hardly call it a close friendship, right Cal?
      Of course, Phil, in between there have been Christmas cards - and you're often in my thoughts, my friend, Cal said in defence.
      Sure. Well, how is it going at the college? said Phil, offering a reprieve.
I'm a professor emeritus now.
      Finally retired, eh?
       He's quite. I must teach, you know, so they allow me an English Literature course now and then - a mere bone, a way of easing me out rather painlessly, you know.
      You certainly seem to be ageing well, Cal.
      Actually, I'm quite fit, said Cal crossing one knee over the other. Be advised, my friend, alcohol is a poor preservative for human protoplasm. I'm quite off the sauce nowadays.
      Glad to hear it. Well -
      Hardly as much fun - sobriety's really a bore, you know, Cal said laughing but he stopped when he saw that Phil, showing a hint of impatience, didn't join in.
      You were saying over the phone -
      I hope I'm not intruding. I had to talk to you personally, Phil.
      You mean about money again? said Phil, picking up and fingering a gold pen.
      In point of fact, Phil, this time it's not for myself. My roommate -
      Your roommate? said Phil, eyebrows raised. In the old days, I remember, when I suggested we share an apartment you insisted on living alone.
      Times have changed, Phil. You might say, my lover, then. That's the long and short of it. I see no point in pretending.
      I see. And she's in trouble, is that it?
      Trouble, yes, said Cal, hesitating as he formulated his revelation. He's quite addicted, you know. Very, very unfortunate. But now realising how futile his habit is, he's quite ready to submit to detoxification. However, as you know, it's quite expensive - or perhaps you didn't know, and as it so happens, I'm still somewhat short myself - rest assured, Phil, I'll pay you back. I insist that it be only a loan.
      Just a minute, said Phil sitting upright from a slouch. What happened to the five hundred dollar cheque I sent you last week?
      As I explained - I thought I had explained - that was for my car insurance.
      Yes, that's what you said, but now -
      It's not for myself this time, Phil. Five hundred dollars, that's all. As I said, it would be merely a loan. I would repay it in due time, I assure you, in due time. Of course, I'd consider no other terms. You see, Phil, when I receive my social security payment first of the month I should be able to -
      You were never very good at managing money, were you Cal?

  1. posture

  2. position

  3. stance

  4. rise
Reveal answer Fill a bubble to check yourself
A Correct answer
Explanation

a sit, stand or walk with an .... in together we are talking about posture

Multiple choice

What is the meaning of protoplasm?

Directions: Read the following passage and answer the question.  

Phil was seated behind his desk signing papers when the phone rang. He picked it up. I told you I didn't want to talk to him. You mean he's here? Ingersoll's here? He paused, collecting his thoughts. Haven't I told you - didn't you tell him, I'm in a meeting? Oh, hell, then send him in.
      Phil's office, on the thirty-ninth floor of one of Chicago's newest skyscrapers, was opulently furnished. Papers were stacked neatly on one corner of his immaculate desk. On the other corner stood a framed photograph of his wife and children. Behind the desk was a massive window looking over the lower buildings of the loop for a distance of twenty miles on a clear day. Along the wall opposite to desk was a couch. Two comfortable visitor chairs immediately faced the desk.
      As tall, seventy-years-old Ingersoll breezed in, Phil, beaming rose from behind his desk to shake his hand. Calvin! What a surprise, he exclaimed. Good to see you again.
      Same here, my friend - my old friend, said Cal, beaming as well and taking Phil's hand.
       Please sit. Sit down, by all means, said Phil directing him to one of the chairs before his desk. Tell me, Cal, how long would you say it's been?
        You mean -
      I mean since we've actually seen each other. Of course, we've talked on the phone. That little business matter, y'know and -
      I'd say - perhaps ten years, more or less, said Cal.
      Oh, all of that. Ten years, at least. It was at Flaunteroy's Tavern, wasn't it? said Phil settling back in his velour upholstered chair.
      Ah, yes. Excellent cuisine, I must say, said Cal grinning.
      You were coming out of the bar, as I recall.
      Sober, I presume, said Cal with a laugh.
      Glowing is more like it. You were exceptionally cordial.
      My glow had to be genuine - I believe. Yes, I was delighted to see you - after- how long had it been then?
      A good twenty-five years. As of now we've seen each other only twice in thirty-five years. I'd hardly call it a close friendship, right Cal?
      Of course, Phil, in between there have been Christmas cards - and you're often in my thoughts, my friend, Cal said in defence.
      Sure. Well, how is it going at the college? said Phil, offering a reprieve.
I'm a professor emeritus now.
      Finally retired, eh?
       He's quite. I must teach, you know, so they allow me an English Literature course now and then - a mere bone, a way of easing me out rather painlessly, you know.
      You certainly seem to be ageing well, Cal.
      Actually, I'm quite fit, said Cal crossing one knee over the other. Be advised, my friend, alcohol is a poor preservative for human protoplasm. I'm quite off the sauce nowadays.
      Glad to hear it. Well -
      Hardly as much fun - sobriety's really a bore, you know, Cal said laughing but he stopped when he saw that Phil, showing a hint of impatience, didn't join in.
      You were saying over the phone -
      I hope I'm not intruding. I had to talk to you personally, Phil.
      You mean about money again? said Phil, picking up and fingering a gold pen.
      In point of fact, Phil, this time it's not for myself. My roommate -
      Your roommate? said Phil, eyebrows raised. In the old days, I remember, when I suggested we share an apartment you insisted on living alone.
      Times have changed, Phil. You might say, my lover, then. That's the long and short of it. I see no point in pretending.
      I see. And she's in trouble, is that it?
      Trouble, yes, said Cal, hesitating as he formulated his revelation. He's quite addicted, you know. Very, very unfortunate. But now realising how futile his habit is, he's quite ready to submit to detoxification. However, as you know, it's quite expensive - or perhaps you didn't know, and as it so happens, I'm still somewhat short myself - rest assured, Phil, I'll pay you back. I insist that it be only a loan.
      Just a minute, said Phil sitting upright from a slouch. What happened to the five hundred dollar cheque I sent you last week?
      As I explained - I thought I had explained - that was for my car insurance.
      Yes, that's what you said, but now -
      It's not for myself this time, Phil. Five hundred dollars, that's all. As I said, it would be merely a loan. I would repay it in due time, I assure you, in due time. Of course, I'd consider no other terms. You see, Phil, when I receive my social security payment first of the month I should be able to -
      You were never very good at managing money, were you Cal?

  1. life

  2. existence

  3. lifestyle

  4. duration
Reveal answer Fill a bubble to check yourself
A Correct answer
Explanation

the living contents of cell

Multiple choice

How much money did Cal borrow last time?

Directions: Read the following passage and answer the question.  

Phil was seated behind his desk signing papers when the phone rang. He picked it up. I told you I didn't want to talk to him. You mean he's here? Ingersoll's here? He paused, collecting his thoughts. Haven't I told you - didn't you tell him, I'm in a meeting? Oh, hell, then send him in.
      Phil's office, on the thirty-ninth floor of one of Chicago's newest skyscrapers, was opulently furnished. Papers were stacked neatly on one corner of his immaculate desk. On the other corner stood a framed photograph of his wife and children. Behind the desk was a massive window looking over the lower buildings of the loop for a distance of twenty miles on a clear day. Along the wall opposite to desk was a couch. Two comfortable visitor chairs immediately faced the desk.
      As tall, seventy-years-old Ingersoll breezed in, Phil, beaming rose from behind his desk to shake his hand. Calvin! What a surprise, he exclaimed. Good to see you again.
      Same here, my friend - my old friend, said Cal, beaming as well and taking Phil's hand.
       Please sit. Sit down, by all means, said Phil directing him to one of the chairs before his desk. Tell me, Cal, how long would you say it's been?
        You mean -
      I mean since we've actually seen each other. Of course, we've talked on the phone. That little business matter, y'know and -
      I'd say - perhaps ten years, more or less, said Cal.
      Oh, all of that. Ten years, at least. It was at Flaunteroy's Tavern, wasn't it? said Phil settling back in his velour upholstered chair.
      Ah, yes. Excellent cuisine, I must say, said Cal grinning.
      You were coming out of the bar, as I recall.
      Sober, I presume, said Cal with a laugh.
      Glowing is more like it. You were exceptionally cordial.
      My glow had to be genuine - I believe. Yes, I was delighted to see you - after- how long had it been then?
      A good twenty-five years. As of now we've seen each other only twice in thirty-five years. I'd hardly call it a close friendship, right Cal?
      Of course, Phil, in between there have been Christmas cards - and you're often in my thoughts, my friend, Cal said in defence.
      Sure. Well, how is it going at the college? said Phil, offering a reprieve.
I'm a professor emeritus now.
      Finally retired, eh?
       He's quite. I must teach, you know, so they allow me an English Literature course now and then - a mere bone, a way of easing me out rather painlessly, you know.
      You certainly seem to be ageing well, Cal.
      Actually, I'm quite fit, said Cal crossing one knee over the other. Be advised, my friend, alcohol is a poor preservative for human protoplasm. I'm quite off the sauce nowadays.
      Glad to hear it. Well -
      Hardly as much fun - sobriety's really a bore, you know, Cal said laughing but he stopped when he saw that Phil, showing a hint of impatience, didn't join in.
      You were saying over the phone -
      I hope I'm not intruding. I had to talk to you personally, Phil.
      You mean about money again? said Phil, picking up and fingering a gold pen.
      In point of fact, Phil, this time it's not for myself. My roommate -
      Your roommate? said Phil, eyebrows raised. In the old days, I remember, when I suggested we share an apartment you insisted on living alone.
      Times have changed, Phil. You might say, my lover, then. That's the long and short of it. I see no point in pretending.
      I see. And she's in trouble, is that it?
      Trouble, yes, said Cal, hesitating as he formulated his revelation. He's quite addicted, you know. Very, very unfortunate. But now realising how futile his habit is, he's quite ready to submit to detoxification. However, as you know, it's quite expensive - or perhaps you didn't know, and as it so happens, I'm still somewhat short myself - rest assured, Phil, I'll pay you back. I insist that it be only a loan.
      Just a minute, said Phil sitting upright from a slouch. What happened to the five hundred dollar cheque I sent you last week?
      As I explained - I thought I had explained - that was for my car insurance.
      Yes, that's what you said, but now -
      It's not for myself this time, Phil. Five hundred dollars, that's all. As I said, it would be merely a loan. I would repay it in due time, I assure you, in due time. Of course, I'd consider no other terms. You see, Phil, when I receive my social security payment first of the month I should be able to -
      You were never very good at managing money, were you Cal?

  1. five hundred dollar

  2. two hundred dollar

  3. six hundred dollar

  4. four hundred
Reveal answer Fill a bubble to check yourself
A Correct answer
Explanation

 refer to last paragraph

Multiple choice

What is the meaning of spindles?

Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
      "Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
      "You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
      I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
      Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
      I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
      "It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
      "Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
      "I think she's jealous."
      "Don't be ridiculous."
      "Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
      "Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
      Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
      "Who?"
      "Your old girlfriend."
      "I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
      "What's she like?"
      "It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
      "Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
      "Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
      Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
      "I'm not like that at all," she protested.

      Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
      "For one thing, she's beautiful."
      "Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
      Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
      "I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
      "Then she's got plenty of guys."
      "No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
      "I knew it. A real oddball."
      He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
      "That's a problem?"
      "It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
      I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
      Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
      After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
      She glanced at Kirk.
      "He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
      "I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
      "Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
      She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
      "Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
      "I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
      After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
      "Give it time. She'll come around."
      "I do like her."
      "I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."

      Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
      "I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
      "I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
      "Well, you won't have to do that."
      We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
      "Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
      Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
      Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
      "If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.

  1. slender

  2. dainty

  3. thin

  4. none of these
Reveal answer Fill a bubble to check yourself
A Correct answer
Explanation

slender is the closest option as it refers to long and thin

Multiple choice

Where was the concert being held?

Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
      "Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
      "You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
      I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
      Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
      I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
      "It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
      "Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
      "I think she's jealous."
      "Don't be ridiculous."
      "Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
      "Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
      Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
      "Who?"
      "Your old girlfriend."
      "I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
      "What's she like?"
      "It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
      "Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
      "Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
      Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
      "I'm not like that at all," she protested.

      Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
      "For one thing, she's beautiful."
      "Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
      Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
      "I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
      "Then she's got plenty of guys."
      "No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
      "I knew it. A real oddball."
      He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
      "That's a problem?"
      "It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
      I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
      Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
      After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
      She glanced at Kirk.
      "He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
      "I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
      "Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
      She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
      "Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
      "I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
      After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
      "Give it time. She'll come around."
      "I do like her."
      "I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."

      Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
      "I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
      "I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
      "Well, you won't have to do that."
      We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
      "Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
      Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
      Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
      "If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.

  1. Mechanics Hall

  2. Auditorium

  3. Theatre

  4. Play house
Reveal answer Fill a bubble to check yourself
A Correct answer
Explanation

clearly mentioned in first paragraph our destination was Mechanics Hall

Multiple choice

What is the meaning of the phrase balancing a basket?

Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
      "Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
      "You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
      I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
      Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
      I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
      "It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
      "Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
      "I think she's jealous."
      "Don't be ridiculous."
      "Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
      "Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
      Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
      "Who?"
      "Your old girlfriend."
      "I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
      "What's she like?"
      "It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
      "Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
      "Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
      Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
      "I'm not like that at all," she protested.

      Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
      "For one thing, she's beautiful."
      "Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
      Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
      "I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
      "Then she's got plenty of guys."
      "No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
      "I knew it. A real oddball."
      He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
      "That's a problem?"
      "It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
      I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
      Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
      After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
      She glanced at Kirk.
      "He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
      "I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
      "Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
      She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
      "Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
      "I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
      After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
      "Give it time. She'll come around."
      "I do like her."
      "I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."

      Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
      "I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
      "I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
      "Well, you won't have to do that."
      We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
      "Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
      Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
      Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
      "If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.

  1. steady

  2. stabilise

  3. position

  4. perch
Reveal answer Fill a bubble to check yourself
A Correct answer
Explanation

an attempt to be steady

Multiple choice

What was the status of Dad?

Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
      "Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
      "You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
      I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
      Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
      I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
      "It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
      "Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
      "I think she's jealous."
      "Don't be ridiculous."
      "Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
      "Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
      Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
      "Who?"
      "Your old girlfriend."
      "I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
      "What's she like?"
      "It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
      "Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
      "Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
      Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
      "I'm not like that at all," she protested.

      Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
      "For one thing, she's beautiful."
      "Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
      Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
      "I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
      "Then she's got plenty of guys."
      "No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
      "I knew it. A real oddball."
      He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
      "That's a problem?"
      "It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
      I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
      Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
      After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
      She glanced at Kirk.
      "He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
      "I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
      "Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
      She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
      "Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
      "I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
      After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
      "Give it time. She'll come around."
      "I do like her."
      "I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."

      Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
      "I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
      "I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
      "Well, you won't have to do that."
      We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
      "Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
      Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
      Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
      "If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.

  1. a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific

  2. from a poor family

  3. from a rich family

  4. he worked in the army
Reveal answer Fill a bubble to check yourself
A Correct answer
Explanation

clearly mentioned  in the last line of the paragraph, veteran fresh from the war

Multiple choice

What is the meaning of exhilarated?

Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
      "Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
      "You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
      I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
      Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
      I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
      "It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
      "Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
      "I think she's jealous."
      "Don't be ridiculous."
      "Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
      "Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
      Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
      "Who?"
      "Your old girlfriend."
      "I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
      "What's she like?"
      "It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
      "Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
      "Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
      Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
      "I'm not like that at all," she protested.

      Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
      "For one thing, she's beautiful."
      "Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
      Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
      "I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
      "Then she's got plenty of guys."
      "No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
      "I knew it. A real oddball."
      He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
      "That's a problem?"
      "It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
      I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
      Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
      After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
      She glanced at Kirk.
      "He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
      "I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
      "Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
      She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
      "Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
      "I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
      After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
      "Give it time. She'll come around."
      "I do like her."
      "I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."

      Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
      "I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
      "I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
      "Well, you won't have to do that."
      We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
      "Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
      Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
      Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
      "If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.

  1. thrill

  2. excite

  3. stimulate

  4. intoxicate
Reveal answer Fill a bubble to check yourself
A Correct answer
Explanation

cheerful and happy, thrill

Multiple choice

What was the age of Victoria when she met Dad?

Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
      "Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
      "You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
      I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
      Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
      I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
      "It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
      "Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
      "I think she's jealous."
      "Don't be ridiculous."
      "Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
      "Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
      Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
      "Who?"
      "Your old girlfriend."
      "I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
      "What's she like?"
      "It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
      "Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
      "Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
      Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
      "I'm not like that at all," she protested.

      Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
      "For one thing, she's beautiful."
      "Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
      Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
      "I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
      "Then she's got plenty of guys."
      "No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
      "I knew it. A real oddball."
      He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
      "That's a problem?"
      "It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
      I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
      Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
      After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
      She glanced at Kirk.
      "He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
      "I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
      "Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
      She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
      "Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
      "I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
      After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
      "Give it time. She'll come around."
      "I do like her."
      "I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."

      Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
      "I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
      "I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
      "Well, you won't have to do that."
      We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
      "Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
      Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
      Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
      "If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.

  1. eighteen

  2. sixteen

  3. seventeen

  4. nineteen
Reveal answer Fill a bubble to check yourself
A Correct answer
Explanation

The passage explicitly states: 'The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific.' This directly mentions Victoria's age as eighteen when she was dating the narrator during their time at the University of Chicago. The narrator mentions hearing her play on campus when they were students.

Multiple choice

Who was Myra Hess?

Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
      "Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
      "You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
      I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
      Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
      I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
      "It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
      "Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
      "I think she's jealous."
      "Don't be ridiculous."
      "Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
      "Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
      Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
      "Who?"
      "Your old girlfriend."
      "I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
      "What's she like?"
      "It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
      "Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
      "Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
      Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
      "I'm not like that at all," she protested.

      Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
      "For one thing, she's beautiful."
      "Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
      Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
      "I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
      "Then she's got plenty of guys."
      "No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
      "I knew it. A real oddball."
      He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
      "That's a problem?"
      "It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
      I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
      Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
      After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
      She glanced at Kirk.
      "He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
      "I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
      "Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
      She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
      "Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
      "I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
      After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
      "Give it time. She'll come around."
      "I do like her."
      "I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."

      Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
      "I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
      "I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
      "Well, you won't have to do that."
      We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
      "Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
      Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
      Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
      "If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.

  1. pianist

  2. drummer

  3. guitarist

  4. violinist
Reveal answer Fill a bubble to check yourself
A Correct answer
Explanation

clearly mentioned in the passage

Multiple choice

What is the meaning of squint?

Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
      "Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
      "You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
      I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
      Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
      I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
      "It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
      "Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
      "I think she's jealous."
      "Don't be ridiculous."
      "Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
      "Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
      Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
      "Who?"
      "Your old girlfriend."
      "I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
      "What's she like?"
      "It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
      "Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
      "Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
      Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
      "I'm not like that at all," she protested.

      Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
      "For one thing, she's beautiful."
      "Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
      Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
      "I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
      "Then she's got plenty of guys."
      "No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
      "I knew it. A real oddball."
      He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
      "That's a problem?"
      "It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
      I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
      Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
      After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
      She glanced at Kirk.
      "He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
      "I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
      "Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
      She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
      "Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
      "I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
      After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
      "Give it time. She'll come around."
      "I do like her."
      "I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."

      Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
      "I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
      "I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
      "Well, you won't have to do that."
      We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
      "Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
      Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
      Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
      "If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.

  1. glance sideways

  2. peer

  3. flutter

  4. wink
Reveal answer Fill a bubble to check yourself
A Correct answer
Explanation

squint means to look/glance sideways

Multiple choice

Where was Victoria living?

Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
      "Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
      "You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
      I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
      Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
      I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
      "It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
      "Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
      "I think she's jealous."
      "Don't be ridiculous."
      "Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
      "Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
      Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
      "Who?"
      "Your old girlfriend."
      "I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
      "What's she like?"
      "It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
      "Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
      "Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
      Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
      "I'm not like that at all," she protested.

      Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
      "For one thing, she's beautiful."
      "Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
      Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
      "I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
      "Then she's got plenty of guys."
      "No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
      "I knew it. A real oddball."
      He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
      "That's a problem?"
      "It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
      I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
      Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
      After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
      She glanced at Kirk.
      "He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
      "I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
      "Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
      She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
      "Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
      "I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
      After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
      "Give it time. She'll come around."
      "I do like her."
      "I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."

      Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
      "I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
      "I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
      "Well, you won't have to do that."
      We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
      "Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
      Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
      Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
      "If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.

  1. In the posh East Seventies district

  2. Victoria lay out

  3. Broadway

  4. 5th avenue
Reveal answer Fill a bubble to check yourself
A Correct answer
Explanation

clearly mentioned in the paragraph

Multiple choice

After how many years was Dad meeting Victoria?

Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
      "Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
      "You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
      I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
      Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
      I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
      "It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
      "Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
      "I think she's jealous."
      "Don't be ridiculous."
      "Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
      "Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
      Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
      "Who?"
      "Your old girlfriend."
      "I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
      "What's she like?"
      "It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
      "Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
      "Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
      Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
      "I'm not like that at all," she protested.

      Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
      "For one thing, she's beautiful."
      "Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
      Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
      "I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
      "Then she's got plenty of guys."
      "No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
      "I knew it. A real oddball."
      He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
      "That's a problem?"
      "It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
      I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
      Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
      After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
      She glanced at Kirk.
      "He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
      "I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
      "Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
      She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
      "Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
      "I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
      After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
      "Give it time. She'll come around."
      "I do like her."
      "I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."

      Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
      "I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
      "I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
      "Well, you won't have to do that."
      We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
      "Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
      Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
      Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
      "If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.

  1. thirty years

  2. twenty five years

  3. twenty seven years

  4. thirty one years
Reveal answer Fill a bubble to check yourself
A Correct answer
Explanation

clearly mentioned in the first second line of the paragraph, thirty years is a long time

Multiple choice

What is the meaning of trolley?

Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question.
"But, Daddy, do you think she'll remember you after so many years?" my sixteen-year-old daughter, Betsy, asked. We were driving from our suburban home to Worcester (MA.) center.
      "Well, thirty years is a long time. Hell, I doubt if she'll even recognise me."
      "You don't look so old, Daddy, even if your hair is gray."
      I reached over and gently touched her cheek. Gray? I was virtually bald. But I was still Betsy's shining knight.
      Our destination was Mechanics Hall, a Greek Revival auditorium, an acoustical marvel, built during the Civil War. We were to hear the famous pianist Victoria Kendall play the D Minor Mozart Concerto with the Boston Symphony.
      I had heard her play the piece often (without an orchestra) on the campus of the University of Chicago when we were students. The daughter of a wealthy family, she was only eighteen and I was twenty-three, a veteran fresh from the war in the South Pacific, living off a meager stipend under the GI Bill.
      "It's too bad Ma caught the flu," Betsy said ruefully.
      "Yeah, she'll miss a great concert." I responded.
      "I think she's jealous."
      "Don't be ridiculous."
      "Didn't Victoria Kendall used to be your girlfriend?"
      "Sure, but I married your ma. And we had you."
      Betsy smiled. "Daddy, what's she like?"
      "Who?"
      "Your old girlfriend."
      "I wish you wouldn't refer to her that way."
      "What's she like?"
      "It's been thirty years. I haven't the faintest idea."
      "Daddy, I mean when you knew her."
      "Like you. She was like you-quiet and serious and very determined."
      Betsy squinted under the glare of the mercury vapour lamps as we turned onto Main Street.
      "I'm not like that at all," she protested.

      Back in 1946 I had asked my friend Kirk, an instructor at the university's Laboratory School, the same question: "What's she like?"
      "For one thing, she's beautiful."
      "Aw, c'mon, Kirk. When you say that I know she must be a dog."
      Kirk, forty-five years old, was pleading with me to take Victoria, one of his students, out on a date. Infatuated with him, she sent him love notes, camped at his office door, and called him at home in the evening. A decent, civilised man, not wanting to inflict hurt, he didn't know how to get rid of her.
      "I mean it. She's a Roman goddess."
      "Then she's got plenty of guys."
      "No. No one's interested. You see, there's a problem."
      "I knew it. A real oddball."
      He drummed his fingers on his desk as he searched for words. "You see," he said finally, "the most important thing in her life is the piano."
      "That's a problem?"
      "It's her hands. This poor, beautiful girl's thumbs are ugly, bony spindles. She was born that way."
      I was interested. I was interested in anyone who was an underdog, no matter how. Kirk arranged to have me meet her in his office one afternoon.
      Her surname then was Ricardi. She was certainly a dark beauty. Her eyes were a soft liquid umber. Sheafs of brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her face like an Egyptian queen's. Lithe and slender, she walked smoothly, as if balancing a basket on her head. She wore a conservative but very expensive skirt. Her clothes, Kirk said, always had pockets so she could bury her hands in them. During wintertime she wore special gloves to hide her defect.
      After we were introduced and the three of us chatted for a while, I asked, "Vicki, how'd you like to accompany me to a piano recital at Orchestra Hall next Thursday evening?"
      She glanced at Kirk.
      "He won't bite you," Kirk said and laughed.
      "I don't know," she said, staring at the floor.
      "Dame Myra Hess is soloist," I added.
      She raised her eyes, excited. "Are you sure? She's my favourite pianist."
      "Of course, I'm sure. You'll go?"
      "I wouldn't want to miss her for anything."
      After she left to attend a class, I commented to Kirk, "Well, obviously, I don't count. I have to bribe her."
      "Give it time. She'll come around."
      "I do like her."
      "I thought you would," Kirk said, grinning. "If I were your age . . ."

      Vicki lived in the posh East Seventies district in a French-style country house with large windows and ruby velvet drapes. There were Oriental rugs everywhere and a grand piano in the living room. Raised in a lower middle class family, I had never witnessed such opulence before. Indeed, I could hardly afford the price of our tickets.
      "I don't have a car, Vicki. I'm sorry I can't take you out in finer style," I said.
      "I don't mind," she replied. "I'd be willing to walk the whole ten miles downtown just to hear Myra Hess play."
      "Well, you won't have to do that."
      We took the trolley to the Illinois Central commuter train. Its wheels clicked and clacked down the tracks like castanets as it hurtled us toward the Loop.
      "Oh, this is fun," she said. "I never travel the IC." We sat side by side jostled by the sway of the train. Streaks of light flashed across the window by our seat. Her eyes darted. She seemed exhilarated by the sounds of the train and the people around us. She read every advertisement within view. The ride was clearly an event in itself for her.
      Orchestra Hall is higher than it is wide. From the uppermost balcony the stage looks like a miniature model, but the music is surprisingly strong and clear. To this day, I've saved that evening's program. Myra Hess played an early Beethoven sonata, several Chopin pieces, then the incomparable Mozart A Major sonata, the Number 11, with its excruciatingly sad and delicate andante.
      Entranced, Vicki lost herself in the music while I visually caressed her every feature. It was too soon to become involved with her, I thought. But as I watched her, I found myself falling in love. I had a strange premonition of her destiny. I felt like a diver ready to plunge into a dark pool of unknown depth. Still, I chose to dive. I didn't care if I drowned. It would be worth it.
      "If only I could play like that," Vicki exclaimed as she applauded. Myra Hess bowed to the cheering audience. "Oh if only I could. I'd give anything, anything." Caught up in the excitement, she momentarily seemed to forget she had spindly thumbs. But after Dame Hess left the stage, Vicki buried her hands within the folds of her skirt.

  1. an electrical car

  2. a small truck conveying materials

  3. a small cart serving food

  4. a small donkey cart
Reveal answer Fill a bubble to check yourself
A Correct answer
Explanation

trolley refers to an electric car