Input: The highest point of a wave is the crest. The lowest point is the trough. The vertical distance between a crest and a trough is the height of the wave. Wave height is also called amplitude. The horizontal distance between two crests is the wavelength. Both amplitude and wavelength are measures of wave size. The size of an ocean wave depends on how fast, over how great a distance, and how long the wind blows. The greater each of these factors is, the bigger a wave will be. Some of the biggest waves occur with hurricanes. A hurricane is a storm that forms over the ocean. Its winds may blow more than 150 miles per hour! The winds also travel over long distances and may last for many days.

Does the response "The highest point of a wave is the crest" correctly answer the question "How are the lowest and highest points of a wave related to its amplitude?"?

OPTIONS:
- no
- yes
***
Output: no

Allan crouched over his desk once more, pen in hand and mind blank. He contemplated a story, an outline he had laboriously constructed some time ago. He had filled his pen and raised it, the nib descending towards the paper, before the sound came: the gentle, persistent tapping of the gnarled, primeval willow touching the window with long, insistent fingers. His eyes awoke with a passionate, determined flame, though the only light came from the glutted moon. Allan filled page after page, the words escaping from his mind onto the paper. Where before they had marched in regiments, practiced in ranks and followed their leaders' commands, the words now escaped in their true forms, unhindered by any stricture. He continued long into the night, until the eldritch orb had sunk into the waiting hands of the willow, raised perpetually skyward. Arthur looked up from the results of a night's frenzied labors and looked Allan in the eye. "What is this?" he queried, indicating the pages he held in his left hand. "I decided that since I wasn't having much success with more traditional stories, I might see what sort of work I produced if I let my imagination go freely," Allan replied, somewhat less self-assured than he had been the previous night. "What in G-d's name could have possessed you to do such a thing," cried Arthur, nearly raising his voice. "After all I said the day before, why have you abandoned centuries of literary progress for some self-indulgent fantasy?" He shook the papers at Allan, raising them like a belt above the head of a disobedient son. "This is nothing but a glorified Grimm's tale, a miscarried child of Stoker, a creation less fit to be published than to be told around an open fire at the hovel of some peasant!" He spoke the last word with such heavy intonation that Allan shrank back before the physical wave of sound emanating from Arthur's throat. "Do you hate the modern system of literature? Do you personally despise the works the Enlightenment or the progress made since Shakespeare?" For a moment, Allan could hardly do more than shake his head. "No, of course not I " "Then why," Arthur barreled on, "do you disregard them all and return to this superstitious babble, this morbid, paganistic drivel?

Question: "What did Arthur ask Allan?"

OPTIONS:
- no
- yes

Answer: ""What is this?""

Response: yes

Paul put the despised watch away And laid out before him his array Of stones and metals, and when the morning Struck the stones to their best adorning, He chose the brightest, and this new watch Was so light and thin it seemed to catch The sunlight's nothingness, and its gleam. Topazes ran in a foamy stream Over the cover, the hands were studded With garnets, and seemed red roses, budded. The face was of crystal, and engraved Upon it the figures flashed and waved With zircons, and beryls, and amethysts. It took a week to make, and his trysts At night with the Shadow were his alone. Paul swore not to speak till his task was done. The night that the jewel was worthy to give. Paul watched the long hours of daylight live To the faintest streak; then lit his light, And sharp against the wall's pure white The outline of the Shadow started Into form. His burning-hearted Words so long imprisoned swelled To tumbling speech. Like one compelled, He told the lady all his love, And holding out the watch above His head, he knelt, imploring some Littlest sign. The Shadow was dumb.

Question: "How long did it take to make the watch?"

Response: "Two weeks"
OPTIONS:
- no
- yes

A: no

Nathan read the package of words in silence, his only motions the steady progress of his eyes and occasional replacement of pages. Allan sat nervously across from him in a chair Nathan had probably upholstered himself, a patchwork design of fabric containing easily more stuffing than any other furniture item of the period. At long last, Nathan reached the end and set down his reading on the table between them. Allan leaned forward unconsciously. "It's the best story you've ever written." Allan exhaled and leaned back into the chair, his face relaxing in imitation of his thoughts. "So," he asked, "you don't think it's a waste of ink and paper, a futile expedition into morbidity or literary debauchery?" "Heavens, no," said Nathan, aghast. "This is one of the strongest works I've read in ages. It speaks to the deepest storyteller's instinct within us all, yet is entirely original. My dear friend, you have done it. Oh, they may rail against you at first; they may decry you as a heathen or a literary savage; but while those in power say such things, others will read your tales and see their true worth. Believe me when I say that you will be read a century from now." Allan, though dubious as to that possibility, felt some temptation from the compliment; mainly, it granted him the encouragement he still needed. Nathan promised to show the story to a printer he knew and Allan left it with him, then walked home under the spreading maples with a smile lingering on his face. He felt now that perhaps Nathan was right; although the man was somewhat peculiar, he had both an unimpeachable honesty and a certain propensity for insight. Certainly, it was undeniable that the stories had an originality to them. His mind's strangest fruit had ripened at last, and he found the taste less bitter than expected. These thoughts and others like them filled his head as he walked the long road home. It was evening, and the sky burned orange in the west when he neared home at last.

Question: "Who wrote the story?"

Response: "Allan wrote the story"
OPTIONS:
- no
- yes

A:
yes