One Word Substitution

Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question

The woman's voice issuing from the darkness was frail, yet its tone was commanding.
      "Before I would consider employing you, I must have your assurance that you respect plants," said the woman. It was a voice in possession of itself, accustomed to being heeded and certain of its intention.
      As I peered into the room and my eyes adjusted to the dimness, for the window shades were drawn against the September afternoon light, I could make out the source, a small, longish, web-lined face framed in a scant wreath of stark white hair supported on a white pillow. The rest of the person disappeared into the bed's blanket folds on which books were scattered, some still open.
      "Do you meet that qualification, young man?" She sighed wearily, as if the episode were an effort.
      "Well, I used to work in a nursery, ma'am."
      "That hardly answers my question. Can you distinguish the weeds from the cultivars? That is what I must know, young man. Your name?"
      "Pete-Pete Albert."
      "Two good first names. Do you have a last name?"
      "No, ma'am. Only first names."
      "Well, at least you have a sense of humour. Now I shall see whether you have common sense. One dollar and a half an hour-is that satisfactory?"
      "Yes," I said. It was a generous wage for 1947.
      "I think twelve hours a week will be sufficient."
      "That's okay with me, ma'am."
      "When can you start?"
      "Tomorrow afternoon, ma'am."
      "I'm not a ma'am, Mr. Albert. I'm Doctor Banner."
      "Yes, ma'am-Doctor Banner."
      "Show him the garden, Justine. I'm tired now and wish to rest," the doctor said, dismissing me with a wave of her spindly arm.
      Justine Faray, the doctor's live-in companion, was a tiny, bedraggled, bent woman in her mid-sixties. She stood tentatively in the doorway of the bedroom smoking a cigarette during the interview as if anticipating its early termination. She led me out the rear entrance of the old house to a tiny wooden porch that overlooked a small corral surrounded by a rusty wire fence. Inside the corral sat a large, old, white-haired, sad-eyed dog.
      "That's the White Princess," said Justine in a singing Southern accent. "Hello, sweet Princess. Yes, Clarissa will see you again soon, deah."
      We stepped off the porch to a soft, damp dirt path that led into the garden. It was a large triangular plot of tangled growth bordered on one side by a parking lot that belonged to the university hospital. On the second side a thick, high privet hedge shielded the jungle from the street, which was walled with an endless string of low apartment buildings. On the third side stood the doctor's house itself, a two-story twenty-foot-wide Victorian affair with an ornate sandstone face. Many such houses once filled Chicago's South Side grid, but now only a few unappreciated specimens remained.
      The university allowed Doctor Banner, a professor emeritus, and her assistant to use the house rent free for as long as the doctor lived. Although Doctor Banner, then in her eighties, hadn't formally taught at the university for more than ten years, she was still conducting biological research in the cellar of the old house. Scores of cages full of peeping mice were stacked there.
      After we explored the garden Justine led me back to the house.
      "Before we proceed any farther, young man," Justine said apologetically, "Ah must make one thing cleah. The cellah is off-limits, most definitely. Nothing must be disturbed theah."
      Justine lit another cigarette and beckoned me to sit down at a large, worn oak table in the centre of what was ostensibly the dining room. A pool table-style light fixture hung from the ceiling. On the table books were strewn helter-skelter-books by E.M. Forster, Einstein, Myrdal, Hemingway, books on a bewildering variety of subjects. The room was chaotic, except for a prim, elegant corner in which stood, to my amazement, a massive mahogany cabinet that housed a state-of-the-art Capehart phonograph and amplifier. It was enveloped in dust.
      "Ah presume, Mr. Albert, you are a man of yoah word and you will show up when you say you will. Please understand, suh, next to the White Princess, yes, even before mahself, good ol' dependahble Justine, the garden is the most important thing in Clarissa's life. Its curative powah surpasses any of the medicine those quacks have prescribed."

Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question

The woman's voice issuing from the darkness was frail, yet its tone was commanding.
      "Before I would consider employing you, I must have your assurance that you respect plants," said the woman. It was a voice in possession of itself, accustomed to being heeded and certain of its intention.
      As I peered into the room and my eyes adjusted to the dimness, for the window shades were drawn against the September afternoon light, I could make out the source, a small, longish, web-lined face framed in a scant wreath of stark white hair supported on a white pillow. The rest of the person disappeared into the bed's blanket folds on which books were scattered, some still open.
      "Do you meet that qualification, young man?" She sighed wearily, as if the episode were an effort.
      "Well, I used to work in a nursery, ma'am."
      "That hardly answers my question. Can you distinguish the weeds from the cultivars? That is what I must know, young man. Your name?"
      "Pete-Pete Albert."
      "Two good first names. Do you have a last name?"
      "No, ma'am. Only first names."
      "Well, at least you have a sense of humour. Now I shall see whether you have common sense. One dollar and a half an hour-is that satisfactory?"
      "Yes," I said. It was a generous wage for 1947.
      "I think twelve hours a week will be sufficient."
      "That's okay with me, ma'am."
      "When can you start?"
      "Tomorrow afternoon, ma'am."
      "I'm not a ma'am, Mr. Albert. I'm Doctor Banner."
      "Yes, ma'am-Doctor Banner."
      "Show him the garden, Justine. I'm tired now and wish to rest," the doctor said, dismissing me with a wave of her spindly arm.
      Justine Faray, the doctor's live-in companion, was a tiny, bedraggled, bent woman in her mid-sixties. She stood tentatively in the doorway of the bedroom smoking a cigarette during the interview as if anticipating its early termination. She led me out the rear entrance of the old house to a tiny wooden porch that overlooked a small corral surrounded by a rusty wire fence. Inside the corral sat a large, old, white-haired, sad-eyed dog.
      "That's the White Princess," said Justine in a singing Southern accent. "Hello, sweet Princess. Yes, Clarissa will see you again soon, deah."
      We stepped off the porch to a soft, damp dirt path that led into the garden. It was a large triangular plot of tangled growth bordered on one side by a parking lot that belonged to the university hospital. On the second side a thick, high privet hedge shielded the jungle from the street, which was walled with an endless string of low apartment buildings. On the third side stood the doctor's house itself, a two-story twenty-foot-wide Victorian affair with an ornate sandstone face. Many such houses once filled Chicago's South Side grid, but now only a few unappreciated specimens remained.
      The university allowed Doctor Banner, a professor emeritus, and her assistant to use the house rent free for as long as the doctor lived. Although Doctor Banner, then in her eighties, hadn't formally taught at the university for more than ten years, she was still conducting biological research in the cellar of the old house. Scores of cages full of peeping mice were stacked there.
      After we explored the garden Justine led me back to the house.
      "Before we proceed any farther, young man," Justine said apologetically, "Ah must make one thing cleah. The cellah is off-limits, most definitely. Nothing must be disturbed theah."
      Justine lit another cigarette and beckoned me to sit down at a large, worn oak table in the centre of what was ostensibly the dining room. A pool table-style light fixture hung from the ceiling. On the table books were strewn helter-skelter-books by E.M. Forster, Einstein, Myrdal, Hemingway, books on a bewildering variety of subjects. The room was chaotic, except for a prim, elegant corner in which stood, to my amazement, a massive mahogany cabinet that housed a state-of-the-art Capehart phonograph and amplifier. It was enveloped in dust.
      "Ah presume, Mr. Albert, you are a man of yoah word and you will show up when you say you will. Please understand, suh, next to the White Princess, yes, even before mahself, good ol' dependahble Justine, the garden is the most important thing in Clarissa's life. Its curative powah surpasses any of the medicine those quacks have prescribed."

Directions: Read the passage and answer the following question

The woman's voice issuing from the darkness was frail, yet its tone was commanding.
      "Before I would consider employing you, I must have your assurance that you respect plants," said the woman. It was a voice in possession of itself, accustomed to being heeded and certain of its intention.
      As I peered into the room and my eyes adjusted to the dimness, for the window shades were drawn against the September afternoon light, I could make out the source, a small, longish, web-lined face framed in a scant wreath of stark white hair supported on a white pillow. The rest of the person disappeared into the bed's blanket folds on which books were scattered, some still open.
      "Do you meet that qualification, young man?" She sighed wearily, as if the episode were an effort.
      "Well, I used to work in a nursery, ma'am."
      "That hardly answers my question. Can you distinguish the weeds from the cultivars? That is what I must know, young man. Your name?"
      "Pete-Pete Albert."
      "Two good first names. Do you have a last name?"
      "No, ma'am. Only first names."
      "Well, at least you have a sense of humour. Now I shall see whether you have common sense. One dollar and a half an hour-is that satisfactory?"
      "Yes," I said. It was a generous wage for 1947.
      "I think twelve hours a week will be sufficient."
      "That's okay with me, ma'am."
      "When can you start?"
      "Tomorrow afternoon, ma'am."
      "I'm not a ma'am, Mr. Albert. I'm Doctor Banner."
      "Yes, ma'am-Doctor Banner."
      "Show him the garden, Justine. I'm tired now and wish to rest," the doctor said, dismissing me with a wave of her spindly arm.
      Justine Faray, the doctor's live-in companion, was a tiny, bedraggled, bent woman in her mid-sixties. She stood tentatively in the doorway of the bedroom smoking a cigarette during the interview as if anticipating its early termination. She led me out the rear entrance of the old house to a tiny wooden porch that overlooked a small corral surrounded by a rusty wire fence. Inside the corral sat a large, old, white-haired, sad-eyed dog.
      "That's the White Princess," said Justine in a singing Southern accent. "Hello, sweet Princess. Yes, Clarissa will see you again soon, deah."
      We stepped off the porch to a soft, damp dirt path that led into the garden. It was a large triangular plot of tangled growth bordered on one side by a parking lot that belonged to the university hospital. On the second side a thick, high privet hedge shielded the jungle from the street, which was walled with an endless string of low apartment buildings. On the third side stood the doctor's house itself, a two-story twenty-foot-wide Victorian affair with an ornate sandstone face. Many such houses once filled Chicago's South Side grid, but now only a few unappreciated specimens remained.
      The university allowed Doctor Banner, a professor emeritus, and her assistant to use the house rent free for as long as the doctor lived. Although Doctor Banner, then in her eighties, hadn't formally taught at the university for more than ten years, she was still conducting biological research in the cellar of the old house. Scores of cages full of peeping mice were stacked there.
      After we explored the garden Justine led me back to the house.
      "Before we proceed any farther, young man," Justine said apologetically, "Ah must make one thing cleah. The cellah is off-limits, most definitely. Nothing must be disturbed theah."
      Justine lit another cigarette and beckoned me to sit down at a large, worn oak table in the centre of what was ostensibly the dining room. A pool table-style light fixture hung from the ceiling. On the table books were strewn helter-skelter-books by E.M. Forster, Einstein, Myrdal, Hemingway, books on a bewildering variety of subjects. The room was chaotic, except for a prim, elegant corner in which stood, to my amazement, a massive mahogany cabinet that housed a state-of-the-art Capehart phonograph and amplifier. It was enveloped in dust.
      "Ah presume, Mr. Albert, you are a man of yoah word and you will show up when you say you will. Please understand, suh, next to the White Princess, yes, even before mahself, good ol' dependahble Justine, the garden is the most important thing in Clarissa's life. Its curative powah surpasses any of the medicine those quacks have prescribed."