(Q).
Read the following context and choose the correct option to answer the question. Context: We all present these glossy lives to the world; coffee cups presented to dewy sunrises, champagne in airport lounges, luxurious restaurants that cost more than they should and share the blue skies days of exploration. I'm as guilty as anyone. But, what about behind those scenes? Those days where the wind is so strong you can't instastory for talking (I'm looking at you Cornwall), when travel mistakes happen (like in Vienna where I accidentally booked our trip a day short) or when everyone asks you what your next trip will be and you sheepishly have to answer 'er, not sure'. So I thought I'd get a few things off my chest, and confess a few of the reasons why I probably shouldn't be calling myself a travel blogger. And yes, these are all very much first world problems. 1. I hate photographs of myself. Ironic, no? Especially when one of the first rules of blogging is all about the cult of personality. I just don't like them. I wish I did, but there are few times that I fancy a photo and even less when I like the result. 2. We nip into a MacDonalds at least once every trip. It has now become a tradition between nicer restaurants to nip in and order a Big Mac and fries at some point of our trip but especially in Europe for some reason. Why do their MacDonalds meals taste better? 3. Pastels aren't really my shade. Again, I wish I could be super girly, twirling in gossamer skirts painted in spring shades but I'm just not. My colour palette is decidedly autumnal/jewel hued and usually sticks to a scarf draped around my neck in a hopefully fashionable manner. And I'm totally ok with that. 4. I once travelled all the way to New Zealand and back (stopping in 3 countries enroute) without a lens cap on my brand new, fairly expensive camera. This is in no way a #humblebrag about the trip, but a comment on how impractical I can be and how careful I also am. I lovingly wrapped my camera in a soft scarf every day for 3 weeks, growled under my breath at anyone who looked like they might jostle me and at one point found... Question: When did the narrator accidentally find herself on a volcano? Options: A. When she was travelling through Yosemite National Park B. When she was travelling through New Zealand C. not enough information D. When she was travelling through Africa
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B

(Q).
Read the following context and choose the correct option to answer the question. Context: Pirate gold. Coins, rings, ingots. Necklaces of emeralds and opals and sapphires. Chalices, bracelets, daggers inlaid with diamonds and lapis and ivory. Malone rolled over in the soft hotel bed. Not just gold but the things it would buy. A two-story house of brick and wrought iron. Greek columns in front and coaches parked in the drive. Built high on the center of Galveston Island, away from the deadly storms of the Gulf, away from the noise and stink of the port. White servants and negro slaves. Fair-haired women to sit at the piano in his parlor. Dark-skinned women to open their legs to him in the secrecy of the night... He sat up in a sweat. I will think no evil thoughts, he told himself. Outside, the sun rose over New Orleans. Horse-drawn carts creaked and rattled through the streets, and chickens complained about the light. The smell of the Mississippi, damp and sexual, floated through the open window. Malone got up and put a robe on over his nightshirt, despite the heat. He turned up the gas lamp over the desk, took out pen, ink and paper, and began to write. 'My dearest Becky...' * He smelled the French Market before he saw it, a mixture of decayed fruit, coffee, and leather. He crossed Decatur Street to avoid a side of beef hung over the sidewalk, swarming with flies. Voices shouted in a dozen different languages. All manner of decrepit wooden carts stood on the street, their contents passed from hand to hand until they disappeared under the yellow canvas awnings of the market. Beyond the levee Malone could see the tops of the masts of the tall ships that moved toward the Governor Nicholl's Street Wharf. Question: How long did Malone probably spend writing a letter? Options: A. Two days. B. Several minutes. C. not enough information D. Multiple hours.
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B

(Q).
Read the following context and choose the correct option to answer the question. Context: I do not fully understand exactly what you are asking so I will restate what I believe you are asking and then I will answer it. What was the best excuse that a student ever gave for having failed to do something? I would have to say that I was most entertained by a student's response to "Why are you late for school?" The student said, "I awoke in time this morning but there was a mouse sitting on the edge of my bed. I looked at him and he looked back. The mouse said to me, 'Go back to sleep' and what could I do? He had a gun." The following has worked a few times too when students refuse to talk. That is, I know that one of the assembled students was the culprit for some activity. When they will not talk, I interview them one at a time while the others are kept away from each other. Then when they are assembled before me again, I say, "Thank you gentlemen. I know who did it so you others are free to return to class." All but one arises and leaves. This works more times than not. For years I have given assignments via email and I have collected assignments via email. Nothing has ever gotten lost this way and things are timestamped. I do not have to make photocopies and even students who are not present the day that the assignment is announced in class, get the assignment in a timely manner. One young lady told me, "I turned it in but you must have lost it." "Okay," I said, "Open your sent folder and show me that you sent it." She replied by saying, "I delete my sent folder to keep from clogging up my email." I told her that I understood and that she could show me an empty sent folder to prove that she was telling the truth. She said, "I lied." Question: What was students name? Options: A. Ella B. Lady C. not enough information D. Jessy
(A).
C